


Salt, Sugar… Spice.

by Melo_Mapo



Series: Din Djarin's Secret Network of Past Lovers [6]
Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Action & Romance, Bumming Around the Galaxy, Cook OC, Drama & Romance, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Post-Season/Series 01, Questing for the Jedi, Tasty Lovely Food, healer oc - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:00:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 55
Words: 71,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26704879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melo_Mapo/pseuds/Melo_Mapo
Summary: Overwhelmed with trying to raise the Child alone, the Mandalorian turns to friends old and new for help. Shenanigans across the galaxy ensue - action, romance, tasty food: embark on the adventure today!"Wanted alien child of unknown species and his Mandalorian bounty hunter caretaker are looking for live-in nanny to fly around the galaxy escaping Imperial troops. Fighting experience preferred."
Relationships: Cara Dune/Paz Vizsla, Din Djarin/Paz Vizsla, Din Djarin/Paz Vizsla/Original Female Character(s), The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Original Character(s)
Series: Din Djarin's Secret Network of Past Lovers [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1940539
Comments: 115
Kudos: 77





	1. Cara Dune

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my longest fic to date!
> 
> It was written over a few months with input from a first team of readers who voted on the story's path as it unspooled. It features characters from the [Din Djarin's Secret Network of Past Lovers](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1940539) series but can be read as a standalone. It is finished and will update once to twice weekly as I go through editing for coherence now that the story is over.
> 
> Endless gratitude to [CoffeeQuill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeQuill/), [MissTeaVee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissTeaVee), [Panda](https://red-velvet-panda.tumblr.com/), and FrostFireAK for their invaluable help proofreading my mess. They're the only reason Din isn't Don half the time. Any remaining errors are entirely my own.

The Nevarro cantina is busy with live music and bounty hunters, chatting in small groups as Greef Karga holds court a couple of booths over. The atmosphere is… joyful, or at least however joyful a dive bar full of rough, violent people can get. Cara finds it comforting. And here’s Mando, in the booth seat across from hers. He has just turned in a couple of bounties and got paid, yet looks to be at the end of his rope. His beskar could use a shine, and he is quite frankly slumped over. The green womp rat isn’t around - probably still on the ship. 

“Cara… I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

Taking a sip of her drink, Cara asks, “Didn’t peg you for the giving up type, Mando. What is it you can’t do?”

“ _Any_ of it.”

“Didn’t peg you for the dramatic type either.” 

The bounty hunter’s helmet lolls on the back of the seat. 

“I haven’t slept through the night in weeks. The kid has so much _energy_.” He spits the word like venom, and Cara bites her lip to refrain from laughing. “And keeping him contained is near impossible,” adds Mando, despairing. 

“Probably not great on hunts, heh.”

“No,” confirms the man, sounding defeated. 

“Well. You know I’m happy to babysit once in a while, BUT only once in a while.”

“I know. What should I do?”

Cara is thinking about it when Greef makes his way over, having dispatched hunters as he deemed appropriate. 

“Mando, my friend! You ran off after dropping your bounties. Care for some conversation?”

Mando shuffles along the seat, making space for Greef.

“What’s the topic _du jour_?” asks Greef.

“Mando realising raising a kid alone while on the run is too much even for a Mandalorian.”

“Aaah, the joys of parenthood.” 

Greef sounds half-commiserating, half-delighted. Mando’s sigh is so loud his vocoder crackles with it. 

“If you’ve no useful advice, I might as well get back to the kid,” he says, sounding petulant.

“Now, not so fast, Mando,” Greef says, “I’m sure we can help. Have you thought of getting a nanny?”

“I’ve left him with babysitters for short periods of time. But anybody I would trust to leave him with for longer, I don’t want to endanger them with his presence either.” 

“What about an _au pair_. Somebody who’d travel with you both?” suggests Greef. 

The Mandalorian straightens up and turns to the man, then to Cara. “I don’t see who would sign up for such a job. Cara already said no.”

The woman shakes her head, “My refusal was about what _I_ am and want, not about you or the kid. I’m sure you could find somebody else who’d love to play parent and stay behind on hunts.”

“Well, that’s settled then,” says Greef, “I’ll put an ad on the network, and you can review candidates as they come in.” 

Cara has a feeling Mando would protest more, but is so out of options and energy to care that he submits with limited grumbling.


	2. Cara Dune

The interviews are a disaster. A hilarious disaster, but a disaster still. Cara is present, at first just to keep Mando and the kid company, then for entertainment value, and then to support the bounty hunter as every single prospect turns out to be inadequate in obvious ways. 

First, there’s the one who’s so scared of Mando he can’t align three words. 

Then there’s the one who doesn’t mind Mando, but can’t hide she finds the kid repulsive. 

Another one seems to be a good fit, until it turns out they have a fragile heart and a deep fear of violence, anything to do with weapons, and them possibly being fired in proximity to their being. 

The last candidate doesn’t even make it to being introduced to the kid. He takes one look at the ship, mentions he gets motion sick and can’t travel much, and that’s it. 

While Mando feeds the kid before the next round of interviews, Cara checks in with Greef about exactly where the ad was placed and how it was worded. As she expected, Greef kept it so vague it now made sense nobody who showed up was appropriate for the job. When she takes back that information to Mando, he shrugs, “It’s not like he could write: ‘Wanted alien child of unknown species and his Mandalorian bounty hunter caretaker are looking for live-in nanny to fly around the galaxy escaping Imperial troops. Fighting experience preferred.’ The Imperials use the Holonet too.” 

The afternoon interviews don’t go much better, and by the time the three adults and the green child regroup at the cantina, the mood is subdued. Greef has a datapad on the table and his problem-solving face on, the one Cara knows from when he decides which jobs to assign to which hunters. 

“Ok, so we need somebody nurturing and good with kids, obviously, but also not scared of a fight, and ideally has some combat skills.”

“Somebody who doesn’t mind the whole Mandalorian thing,” adds Cara. 

“Somebody used to travel, and not just in nice areas,” contributes Mando. 

“What about… another Mando?” suggests Greef.

Mando shakes his head, “They are laying low. It could be months before I learn where the survivors have gone.” 

His voice is tight, with shame, grief, or longing, Cara isn’t sure. Greef looks like he wants to insist but she elbows him. They change the subject, Greef talking about some pucks he just received instead. 

The night advances further, and Mando closes the pram with the sleeping child inside as the crowd gets rowdier. Cara has just thrown a couple of troublemakers outside and sat back down when she suddenly gets an idea. 

“Hey Mando. I think I know who to ask,” she says, somber.

Din turns to his friend.

“You don’t seem that excited about it.” 

“She’s… somebody from my past. From before… well. But she’d be kind of perfect: she’s great with kids, always seems to know exactly what they want. Grew up with a lot of younger siblings.” 

Cara touches her braid, thinking of Alderaan’s loss, and silence hangs around the table.

“Do you know where this friend of yours is?” eventually asks Greef. 

Cara smirks, “How do you feel about a trip to Coruscant, Mando?”

The armored man groans. Cara knows he hates the Core: apparently, all of his worst hunting failures have happened on Core planets. Mando looks ready to tell Cara to stuff it, when the pram slid open on its own, and a wide-awake green face pokes out, ears slightly raised in a way that screams mischief. 

“This better be worth it,” Din says.


	3. Din Djarin

_Kriffing Core_ , thought Din, _credit-eating kriffing Core_. The Coruscant docking fees alone had emptied Din’s pocket, and despite its current allegiance to the New Republic, the bounty hunter felt uncomfortable so near what had been the seat of the Empire’s power. They’d had to leave the kid on the ship, and Din felt anxious to get back to him already. The teeming crowds, and the fact that nobody here was fazed by the Mandalorian armor, nor respectful of it, helped neither his mood nor his progress.

“Are we _still_ far?” asked Din, as a forceful old woman elbowed him out of her way as he tried to catch up with Cara. The woman, light on her feet, seemed to flow through the crowd easily in a way Din was envious of. 

“Let’s stop for food!” she replied, suddenly pulling Din inside a restaurant. The Mandalorian barely had time to duck the pennants in the entryway before he was pushed onto a stool at the counter. Actually, the place was so small and narrow, there was only space to eat at the counter, which divided the room in two: on one side the bar and kitchen, on the other side the customers, busy slurping noodles. 

The two cooks were busy, one at the stove stir-frying noodles while the other shaped them, pulling the dough into increasingly longer and thinner strands which she wrapped around her hands as she went. A third staff person was facing them and, spotting the Mandalorian and his helmet, said, “Paying customers only. We’ve got no seats to waste for gawkers.” 

“Well now, surely you have a straw somewhere, heh? Pour some broth for my friend, and a bowl of noodles for me.”

Din turned to Cara, ready to protest, but she stopped him with a wave of her hand. 

“Indulge me, please. This place came recommended to me.” 

“Your friend?” asked Din, and she nodded. 

“Are we meeting her here?” he added.

“In a way,” she answered.

Din let it go. Cara had been quite mysterious about this friend of hers, but Din figured it was a sensitive topic. He would know more about her soon enough, anyway. So he kept silent and watched as the woman finished pulling the noodles, flouring them by slapping them on the counter before passing them to the other cook. While the second cook got started on cooking the fresh pasta, the first one moved on to preparing two bowls of the broth, seasoning them before passing them to the last staff member, the rude one who had wanted to kick Din out. Soon, a bowl was placed in front of him, full of fragrant, steaming broth and with a colorful, incongruous cocktail straw sticking out of it. Cara’s bowl came a minute later, and they focused on their food for a moment. It was tasty. Even without the noodles, the broth was rich and flavorful, just the right amount of fat and spice. Actually, more heat than Cara usually could handle - glancing over at his friend, Din was expecting to see her struggle with her dish, but she seemed to be enjoying it as well. 

“What do you think?” Cara asked him. 

Dinslurped another careful sip, but the broth was the right temperature to drink without boiling his palate off. The comforting blend of flavors hit him anew. 

“Perfect,” he answered sincerely. 

Cara’s smile was wistful as she touched her braid.

“Heh, haven’t lost your touch, Elle.”

The woman who had pulled the noodles and prepared their bowls turned to them and Din almost gasped. Her complexion was a deep bronze, and tight coils of inky hair haloed her face, yet there was something in the shape of her eyes and mouth that was reminiscent of Cara’s face. 

“I’m so very glad to hear it, Tia.” 

The woman leaned back on the counter behind her, crossed her arms in a way that screamed ‘Cara’ even more than her face did, and asked: 

“So that’s the guy, the Mandalorian? Where’s the cute kid you mentioned?” 

Cara nodded, That’s Mando, yeah. The kid’s safe back on the ship.”

The woman hummed, then, coming to a decision, she stepped forward and offered Din her hand, “Well met, Mandalorian, I’m Julandielle Dune. I look forward to meeting this kid my cousin can’t stop talking about.” 

Din took the offered hand and shook it. She had a firm grip. 

“But first, you should finish that broth. It’s getting cold.”


	4. Din Djarin

It was strange, seeing Cara and her cousin interact. The two women were walking ahead of Din, heading back to the spaceport. They seemed both at ease and reserved with each other, in a way the Mandalorian had trouble understanding. Used to reading body language, he saw the hesitation there, the aborted movements to grab an arm or bump a shoulder. Yet their faces were all smiles, and they were talking animatedly about the cost of fuel in this sector of the galaxy. 

Unwilling to get in-between whatever it was that was going on, Din followed a couple steps behind as they made their way to the spaceport. Finally the hangar came into view, a tall, duracrete building lacking any kind of charm. Ships landed at the top before being taken by elevator to an empty parking spot. Din could only afford the crummiest spot, and it could barely contain the Razor Crest. It did contain an excess of slugs busy nibbling on the duracrete itself, and the less said about the disturbingly large animals blindy eating their way through the building, the better. The faster they got out, the better: Din wasn’t too confident in the building’s structural integrity.

Having stepped past the two women to unlock the hangar and deactivate the Razor Crest’s security protocols, Din missed the cousin’s reaction, but he did hear her gasp. 

“Cool antique, right?” boasted Cara. 

“No! That’s not… I mean, the ship’s cool, I guess, but _Goddess_.” 

She stumbled hurriedly past Din and the ramp was barely lowered before a green and tan shape launched itself in the air that she flawlessly caught. 

“Oh, little one, you’re ok, you’re ok, he’s back now,” mumbled Julandielle as she rocked the child and walked back towards Cara and Din. The child, however distressed he had been, was already settling down, his umber eyes fixed on the equally dark eyes of Cara’s cousin. 

The ex-Rebel smacked Din on the shoulder. 

“Well, that’s settled then.”

“She hasn’t agreed to take the job,” pointed Din, befuddled by how friendly the kid was, but glad of it. 

“Oh, there’s no way I’m not coming,” said the woman in question, “I haven’t met anybody so close to the Force before.”

“The Force?” asked Cara.

Julandielle smoothed the baby’s ears, causing him to coo and settle in her arms. 

“You mean you don’t know?”

She looked down at the kid, who smiled up at her. 

“Can’t he do weird stuff like speak telepathically, maybe make things fly?”

Cara rubbed her throat and Din winced.

“He has levitated a mudhorn before. I have not noticed anything telepathic.” 

“Hmm. Strange. I mean, he’s not using words, but I perceive him pretty clearly.” 

“You’ve got those powers too, Jul?” Cara sounded as surprised as Din felt, which was reassuring. 

“I’m far from Jedi material, but I have some affinity with the Force. I read people’s moods... mostly.” 

“You have knowledge of the Jedi?” 

“Not much. But I’ve met some Force-users through the Rebellion.”

“You were with the Rebels?!” 

Cara’s tone was shocked, and her cousin’s face did something complicated. 

“Cara… I know I owe you an apology. But what I said… it didn’t mean I didn’t believe the cause just. So yes, I was a Rebel. But I didn’t fight. I’m still non-violent.”

“You never said a word about being a Rebel!” 

“You never asked! You were too busy risking your life killing off Imps!”

The child, who had been following the conversation with interest, started to frown and his ears drooped as voices rose. Din piped in before the shouting got louder: 

“You are non-violent?”

Turning away from a fuming Cara, Julandielle said, “She didn’t tell you? We fought about it when Cara joined the Alliance. I couldn’t support her becoming a killer. Death is never the answer, by Alderaan philosophy.” 

“How familiar with Mandalorian culture are you?” asked Din. 

“I don’t know much about it. Why?” 

Din stared at her, then turned to Cara, who shrugged.

“And that’s why I didn’t go to her first. She’ll be great with the kid, though. Plus, between the two of us, we’ve got the fighting covered.” 

Wishing he could massage the headache he felt forming behind his forehead, Din sighed,“The child likes you, that’s one point in your favor. You can cook, that’s two. What did you do when you were with the Rebel Alliance?”


	5. Cara Dune

“I was a field medic.”

“Ten more points for you. You’re in, should you want the job,” Din says immediately. 

Cara snickers. Mando tends to slap a bacta patch on his wounds and call it a day, but the green womp rat hates seeing him injured and has stealth-healed him against his will several times. 

“Ok, so... from the non-violent question, I’m guessing there’s a catch. What is it?”

“We should talk inside.”

Jul looks around the hangar, deserted but for the four of them, shrugs, then follows Mando up the ramp and inside the Crest. Cara takes the rear, watching as her cousin takes in the inside of the ship for the first time, moving the kid to one arm as she uses the other to climb the ladder and enter the cockpit. She whistles when she gets there. 

“Damn. I don’t know much about ships, but this is an antique, no?” 

“This is an upgraded Razor Crest, and perfectly safe to fly in,” answers Din.

“No droid…” notes Jul, “ Does that mean you do all the math yourself?”

“The computer helps.”

Din sits in the pilot’s chair, turning it around and inviting the two women to sit as well. Cara knows the Mandalorian well enough to tell he is nervous. 

“The first thing you should know is that the kid is 50 years-old.”

Jul looks down at the baby, who is playing with the zipper of her jacket’s pocket. 

“Hmm. That explains it. He feels kind of… deep, emotionally, for a baby.” 

“The second is that I am looking for a family to return him to. In the meantime, he is my responsibility.”

“Just like that?”

“He is my foundling. This is the Way.”

As an aside, Cara tells her cousin:

“He says that a lot. There’s a whole code he follows.”

Ignoring the interruption, Mando continues:

“The third is that the child is wanted by the remnants of the Empire.” 

“Ah. Hence why Tia is involved.” 

“Cara? Yes, in a way.”

“Except I can’t stand babies for long,” adds Cara.

“Don’t I know it! Milko had a bump from when you dropped him.” 

“He wiggled!”

“He was eight months old, and you were tickling him.” 

“Dune, please!” 

Both women answer to the name by falling quiet, and Mando starts again, “The Moff who contracted the bounty has been dealt with, but there are likely more Imperials looking for my foundling, probably because of his powers. Powers which are starting to require more attention than I can provide, hence needing to hire you.” 

“I guess that makes sense. Wait, bounty?” Jul asks.

Cara winces and makes an abort gesture to Mando, but he ignores it and explains, “I encountered the child when he was assigned as my target.”

“But you ended up not handing him in?”

Jul looks down at the kid, petting his soft head and ears. When she raises her gaze again to meet Mando’s visor, he answers, “I did. My payment was a full camtono of beskar. I had second thoughts, and went back for him.”

“That’s pretty daring.” 

Mando shrugs, “I received assistance.”

“He’s being modest,” Cara chimes in, “with him around, you’ll be safe. And I’ll come along for a bit. I need a break anyway.” 

“That’d be very nice. I trust your judgement, Cara, but that’s still a guy in armor asking me to live with him. What would my duties be, exactly?”

The last bit she addressed to Mando, who was leaning back in his chair now, looking more relaxed.

“Your prime role would be to care for the child and to teach him how to use his powers, if you can. Medical aid would be appreciated, when needed. It won’t pay a fortune, but room and board are included, and we travel a lot, if you enjoy that.”

“I do like traveling. If the food is decent, I’m in.” 

“About that… Better tell you that, even though he has a bajillion spices, this dude can only cook porridge and stew,” Cara warns. 

“Oh. I guess I can cook too, then.”

Cara and Mando blurt at the same time, “Please.” 

Jul smiles,“You might come to regret that. Your food budget just tripled.”

Mando gets up, leading the way into the living quarters of the ship, on the other side of the ladderwell. 

“The kid should eat better, anyway. Live frogs only go so far. Come, I’ll show you the rest of the ship.” 

“He swallows them whole,” adds Cara, rejoicing in Jul’s horrified face. 

The child giggles when she turns her grimace to him. She pokes him gently in the tummy, offering him a choice between various recipes for frog legs she knows of. They follow Mando into the small space of the living quarters, and he shows Jul the small galley and living space, with its folding table that doubles as a door for the pantry. There’s a refresher, a small cabin, and a room busy with crates. Cara suspects it used to house the escape pod, but Mando says it is storage he can convert into a second cabin for Jul. 

As Cara watches her cousin take the space in, absent-mindely rocking the kid, she smiles deviously: the green monster has clearly already won Jul over. Mando has a charm most people enjoy given a bit of time. Cara will stick around for a few days, and before long Jul and Mando will fly away into the sunset to go find the kid’s family, and she’ll return to her quiet life of bossing bounty hunters around Nevarro’s cantina. She’s got a good feeling about this.


	6. Din Djarin

“Hey, Mando?”

The yell was coming from the hold, accompanied by a metal-on-metal clanking.

“I’m in the living quarters, Jul.”

At first, Din had tried calling his new crewmate Dune, but of course he had two Dunes on board and that had not worked long. While using Cara for his friend felt fine, as she knew his name too, calling a stranger by her diminutive was a bit strange. Better than ‘Julandielle’ though, which made the woman grimace every time, or ‘Elle,’ which she had clearly said was reserved to Cara, and Cara only. 

The banging noises came closer and soon Jul appeared, one hand on the ladder and the other carrying a bag which, when she put it down, sagged to reveal an assortment of pots, pans, and kitchen utensils. The child, who had been playing with bolts while Din worked, immediately toddled to her. He _loved_ Jul, and would go to her anytime she entered the room. 

“Oh, hello cutie pie, what have you got for me?” 

She took the nut she was handed and fawned over it, thanking the child for his thoughtful gift.

“Do you want to help me put my stuff away, or go back to helping your dad?”

“ _Buir_.”

“Sorry?”

“I’m not his father, but I am his parent, his _buir,_ in Mando’a.”

After a moment of consideration, Jul asked, her brow scrunched up, “I’m not sure I understand the difference?”

“For Mandalorians, being a _buir_ , a parent, is not about sharing genes. It is a sacred duty, the true measure of an individual.” 

Jul started putting away her pots, putting aside the tired old ones Din was fairly sure were already onboard the Crest when he had gotten it. 

“Don’t you have family houses though?” she asked, shyly but clearly curious.

“We do have lineages, but to be part of a clan is to be accepted by it, regardless of blood.”

“Interesting. So, the little one is part of your clan?”

Din nodded. 

“We are a clan of two,” he said proudly, turning to show his signet. 

Jul left the pans behind with the child and wandered over, crouching next to Din to peer at his pauldron. 

“A mudhorn?” she murmured, and Din felt she was very close all of a sudden, all intent eyes and smiling lips.

“Yes. The child helped me defeat one.”

“That small…”

They both turned to look at him, and Jul gasped while Din sighed. The green terror had found Jul’s chef’s knives and was floating them around his head.

“Goddess! I’m sorry, I should have kept an eye on him,” said Jul before rushing over, carefully plucking the blades from the air one by one.

Her hands were trembling, and she was clearly scared for the kid, but probably worried about Din’s reaction as well.

“Knives are not for playing, buddy,” she reprimanded gently, grasping the last one and putting it away with the rest of her collection in a roll she double-tied. 

“I knew a Pantoran once who did juggle blades,” mentioned Din, hoping to diffuse the tension and show he would not hold the incident against her. 

The kid could get into trouble even while under close watch. 

“You mean, like Eno Atiias, the circus artist?”

“The woman’s name was Eno,” admitted Din, surprised by the coincidence. 

“There’s no way!”

Jul dug out her datapad from her back pocket and started a frenetic search on the network. 

“Is that the lady you know?” she asked, showing Din a poster for a performance in Coruscant that had taken place the previous night. 

Smiling at him in all her curved splendor, white hair in an elaborate do, barely a few more wrinkles at the corner of her sparkling yellow eyes, was Eno, juggling familiar-looking knives. She was not the main artist on the flyer, but she was clearly recognizable. The troupe was called ‘The Huttmazing Spectacle’ and a Hutt wearing a top-hat sat front and center, arms open and smiling wide. 

“So?” prompted Jul.

“We met once, on a passenger ship,” confirmed Din. 

“I’ve never gone myself, but that troupe is getting pretty big on the circuit. I heard about it at work. It’s too bad you missed the show!”

Memories of Eno wrestling with him, barely clad, and of what had followed crossed Din’s mind, and he belatedly answered, “It is a shame, indeed.” 

They went back to their respective tasks, Jul babbling to the child - and the child cooing back. Din was just putting the final screw on what would be Jul’s bed when footsteps ran up the ramp, and Cara’s worried voice reached them from the hold, “Hey, guys, we have a problem!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can read about the knife-juggling Pantoran in [Close Quarters](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26171083).


	7. Cara Dune

Cara climbs the ladder as fast as she can and joins the rest of the gang in the living quarters. 

“There are two armed guys casually checking people coming in downstairs.”

“Hunters?” asks Mando. 

“They sure look it.” 

The bounty hunter drops what he is doing, barely stashing the loose parts away before rushing to the cockpit. 

“We are leaving as soon as the tower clears us,” he tells them.

Jul grabs the baby first, then spins in a circle once, sees the mess of knives and pots still left out, and heads to the cockpit. She comes back a second later with her hands free, and joins Cara in frantically putting away potential flying hazards. 

The ship rumbles around them as the elevator picks them up, lifting their platform from their parking spot to the takeoff area. Mando is warming the engines, aiming to lose as little time as possible once the ship is out in the open. And a good kriffing idea it is, too, as four people run to them and start shooting their blasters at the ship as it lifts off. 

Jul yelps at the ruckus of the blaster shots hitting the shielding, and Cara drags her to the cockpit.

“Elle, we’re fine, it will take more than blasters to damage the Razor Crest.”

Plucking the kid up from the starboard passenger seat, Cara sits her cousin in it and puts the kid back down on her lap. 

“Buckle up,” she advises, and leads by example as she takes the port passenger seat. 

Three dots appear on the Razor Crest’s radar, and Mando groans. 

“We’ve got three ships on our tail.”

“Can you give them the slip?” asks Cara as the Crest banks sharply, extracting another yelp from Jul as blasts from one of their pursuer whistle past them. She’s hugging the kid hard, and her breathing is quick. 

“Probably,” admits the bounty hunter.

Mando proceeds to weave left and right - while it’s faster, the Crest is less agile than the single-pilot ships chasing them, and they are stuck in front, being shot at.

“We’ll need a private place to land and fuel up. And soon,” he says.

“Private? You think… The bastards caught us on the public landing records!” realized Cara. 

They are silent a moment as Mando dodges some more shots, one of them shaking the ship as it grazes the shielding. Cara checks on Jul: she’s still squeezing the kid tight, but her breathing has slowed back down. 

“We are losing them. Any ideas on where to land?” asks Mando.

“I’m not familiar with Coruscant,” admits Cara. 

Jul pipes up, voice shaky, “What about the circus?”

“The what?” exclaims Cara.

“They’ll have their own landing field, and two dozen ships to hide among!” Jul adds, voice firmer in her enthusiasm. 

“I’m confused, what circus?” asks Cara again.

“The Huttmazing Spectacle, they’re in town and Mando knows one of the performers.” 

“You know a circus artist?” Cara feels like she is three conversations behind.

“I do,” confirms the guy, “and though I’m uncertain of my welcome, it’s better than no plan at all.”

Jul hands Mando her datapad, and he quickly enters coordinates into the navigation system.

“We are only fifteen minutes out,” he announces. 

They all breathe for a while, and as the adrenaline fades, Cara gets curious. She breaks the silence first, asking, “So, how do you know this performer again?”

“We ended up sharing a cabin when our passenger ship got quarantined in orbit.”

Cara laughs, “You rode on a _passenger ship_?!” 

“I needed to hand in the bounty to get credits for repairing the Crest.”

“Hmmm.”

Cara wants to ask a few more questions, like if they ended up _knowing_ knowing each other, but she doesn’t want to make him uncomfortable. Mando always keeps silent when the conversation turns to boasting about sexual encounters. Her personal theory is that he’s waiting for marriage, under all that armor, because he wants to be able to bare himself fully to his partner. He’s soft like a porg under the beskar. Proof in point, the Mandalorian changes the topic by asking how Jul and the kid are doing. Jul is a bit shaky still, but she relaxes when her curiosity about the green womp rat takes over. They talk about food preferences and sleep schedules until the circus comes into view. 

Bypassing the empty shuttle lot reserved for spectators, Mando heads for an empty spot in the ranks of the performers' ships. The ships vary in size and makes, forming a hodge-podge, colorful caravan. It is the perfect hideout. As they exit the Razor Crest, Cara turns back to check on it. It’s in the shadow of a Falleen Siren, a leisure ship twice the Crest’s size, all in curves and painted a vivid purple. It’s unlikely they’ll get spotted unless the hunters are doing a very thorough, low-to-the-ground flyby. 

A few people come out of their ship or walk over, attracted by the noise of their landing. A pale green, male Nautolan, flanked by a female human, approaches their group first.

“Who are you? Who gave you permission to land here?”

Mando walks out of the Crest’s shadow, and a murmur goes through the assembled crowd as the sun hits his beskar armor. The woman’s hand goes to her waist, hovering by her blaster as the Mandalorian raises his own in the air. 

“We are looking for Eno Atiias,” he says. 

The murmur grows stronger, and Cara spots a couple of people leaving hurriedly, and a few others drawing weapons. 

“What do you want with her? Vengeance?” asks the Nautolan. 

“Vengeance?” repeats Mando, surprised.

“The story of how she beat a Mandalorian is famous here,” yells somebody from the sidelines.

“You’ll have to go through me to get to her!” suddenly screams a young Togruta, emerging from between two ships and coming to a stop next to the Nautolan.

An older Togruta who looks like kin runs after him and slaps a hand on his mouth, muffling him and adding, “Don’t listen to him, he’s too young to die.” 

Raising his voice to make himself heard over the chorus of voices coming from the crowd, the bounty hunter says, “We are here in peace, I assure you. I do not hold Eno’s victory against her.” 

“Too bad,” comes a voice from behind them, “I would have enjoyed a rematch.” 

They turn as one, Cara almost drawing her blaster by reflex, and then resisting the urge to whistle in admiration. The Pantoran woman is gorgeous, tall, and with an abundance of curves that move enticingly as she walks over. She’s dressed in a sparkly leotard that leaves little to the imagination, and highlights the knives strapped to her thighs. She’s sweaty and a bit disheveled: she must have been practicing or performing when she heard the news of their arrival. 

“Hey, Mando. I see you’ve gotten an upgrade.” 

The woman is close enough to touch now, and she does so, running a finger from the bottom of Din’s chest piece to its diamond-shaped heart piece. Din just shakes his head good-humoredly and says, “Eno, good to see you.” 

Usually, he has no patience for people touching him, even friends. Cara is revising her theory about the Mandalorian’s chastity _fast._ Seeing there is no immediate danger, the Nautolan and the human woman come closer.

“You know these people, Eno?” asks the woman.

“I know this man, but I’ve not met his crew.” 

“How can you be sure it’s him?” pushes the Nautolan, wary. 

“Well, unless we spar, I can’t be absolutely certain, but the voice and stature are right for the Mandalorian I know.” 

“He could tell you a detail from when you met,” suggests Jul. 

Cara looks over at her cousin, who winks back. Cara shakes her head, amused. That’s just like the sly teenager she knew, always fishing for information, twisting situations to her advantage with a few words. The Pantoran nods, smiling, “Yes, a small detail you wouldn’t have relayed to a friend when telling them the story.” 

Mando tilts his head, thoughtful, and eventually says, “After we got tested by the Health Agent, they gave us food. You ate, found it bland, and we talked about spices.” 

“Do you remember the name of my favorite Pantoran spice?” she follows up.

Mando is silent longer, tension rising as every eye is on him, before admitting, “I don’t.”

Cara’s hand mirrors the human woman’s as they drift to their holsters, but Eno laughs, “Ok, that’s good enough for me. It was, after all, three years ago, maybe four?” 

Cara breathes a little easier, and everybody seems to relax.

“If you are here for the show, I’m afraid you missed it,” remarks the Nautolan, much friendlier.

“We are not here for the show,” starts Mando, but Jul steps forward and smoothly cuts in, “We are tasked with protecting this child,” she says, presenting the kid’s adorable face for review, “and we had a few unsavory elements use the Coruscant landing records to track us. We needed a place to hide, for a short while. By providing that, you saved this child’s life.” 

Right on cue, the kid turns his large eyes and floppy ears to the circus artists, and coos softly. Cara can see the hearts in the Pantoran’s gaze all the way from her spot at the Mandalorian’s shoulder.

“We only ask that you sell us some fuel so that we might leave Coruscant,” continues Jul.

This time, it’s the human woman whose interest is captured. 

“In exchange for your help,” Jul finishes, “I’d be happy to put in a good word with people I know in the industry. Have you ever performed on Naboo? I used to work for Zarth Bannore.”

Hook, line, and sinker: the Nautolan’s tentacles perk up at the name. The three circus artists exchange glances, and finally Eno says: 

“You will have to talk to the boss, but we can probably help.”

The Nautolan checks his datapad and adds, “Let’s hurry. We’re scheduled to take off and head to our next gig this afternoon. You’ll have to be cleared as a new flotilla member by then if you want to take off among our ships.”

After that, things go fast: they meet with the ringleader Hutt, both a dramatic artist who gobbles up their tragic story and a keen business owner who overcharges them for the fuel. Before she knows it, Cara is recruited to help the decor team splash paint and affix decorative plating to the Crest to disguise it. It takes them a couple of hours, and Elle is gone to procure food for the trip when Mando comes back from getting the Razor Crest registered as part of the flotilla. He has the kid's pram floating behind him, closed. Cara jumps down from the wing of the Crest and meets him at the port side door. 

“Everything ok?” she asks, tilting her head towards the pram. 

Din sighs, but it’s his amused sigh.

“He’s asleep. The Hutt fed him chubas.”

“Nobody can resist his wrinkly face, heh.”

“Not paired with your cousin’s oratory skills, no.”

They walk together inside the hold.

“Ah, yes. Now I know she’s got powers, our childhood makes a lot more sense.” 

They busy themselves with putting away supplies they picked up from the troupe, until the Mandalorian straightens up and looks over at Cara before saying, solemn, “Thank you for taking us to her.”

Mando leans forward, like he wants to add something, but holds off. Cara crosses her arms, annoyed, “Come-on, ask, I know you want to.”

“There is bad blood between you, it seems,” he says, carefully neutral. 

Cara sighs. Better tell him the story and get it over with. 

“We were both studying off-planet, and we met up on Anaxes to make the trip home together for the holidays. But she kept saying something was wrong, dragging her feet, and we missed our shuttle home. I was furious, I forced her on the next one. We were sitting in the observation lounge, mad at each other, looking at Alderaan, when...”

Throat tight, unable to say the words, Cara gestures an explosion with her hands, before letting them drop to her side.

“She passed out. She was... very out of it for a while. I had to care for her while trying to get over my own grief. It didn’t work. I said some things I regret.”

Din is still silent, but attentive, and Cara sighs, compelled to explain further:

“I told her I wished we’d gone on the first shuttle, so that we’d both be dead too. So that I wasn’t stuck with her as my only family. I tried to apologize the next day, but she’d left.”

Mando lifts a hand to her shoulder, but before it reaches her, Jul’s voice rings out, “In the end it was for the best.”

They both jump. Jul is at the hatch to the hold, carrying a giant bag of flour. She puts it down inside the entrance, and tells them, “I didn’t understand my gift at the time, just that you meant the words. I couldn’t tell truths of the moment from lasting truths of the heart. And we’d already fought about you wanting to sign up with the Rebels. I knew our paths were diverging already. But… you know, I think we needed the distance, we needed to become our own persons, not what the other needed to survive. It turned out fine, no?”

Cara’s throat is tight and she stays silent. She didn’t know how much she needed to hear Jul, hear _Elle_ , say those words, and now she’s struggling to keep her composure, relief and joy flooding her. But it doesn’t matter, because Jul smiles and shakes her head, “I’m happy too, Tia. Happy I have a chance to get to know you as an adult. Plus, I love a good adventure, and it looks like we won’t be lacking in this department.”

“Even if it’s dangerous?” asks Mando. 

“Cara is not the only adrenaline junkie in the family. I just go about seeking and dealing with danger in different ways.”

Mando nods, and they are silent a moment before Cara, hoping her voice doesn’t shake too audibly, asks, “Hey, Mando, speaking of danger, where to next?”

“Well, I’m out of credits, with a crew to feed. I have to take a job.”

“Karga said not to show my face until I was ready to go back to work, but we can stop at another Guild outpost,” says Cara.

“If it’s work you’re looking for, the cook has something for us,” mentions Jul.

“What is the job?” asks Din.

“The cook needs two camtonos of spice delivered. Huh, actual spice... not drugs.” 

“Can’t he hire a courier?” wonders Cara aloud.

“It’s Chandrilan saffron, I don’t think he’d trust a regular courier with it.”

“Why not?” Cara insists, confused.

Surprisingly, it’s Din who answers her, “Chandrilan saffron is rarer and worth almost as much as beskar.”

“How is that even possible?!”

Elle laughs, “Because it’s harvested by secretive monks wearing special gloves, and only grows in a small area. It’s tasty, but beyond that it’s become fancy to have at parties on Naboo, which is where we are delivering this.”

“Risk assessment?” asks Din.

“Pretty safe, I think? Nobody knows the cook has the extra saffron right now, except the friend she bought it for. She’s already been paid for the spice, plus half of the delivery fee, which she’d give us if we take the job.”

“How much is that?”

“Oh, twenty thousand credits or so.”

Based on bounties she has seen come through Greef’s outpost, Cara figures it’s a decent amount, but Naboo is pretty far, and there are four of them now, which means more food and fuel needed.

“Twenty thousand total, that’s a bit tight,” confirms Mando. 

“No, no, forty thousand for the whole job. In New Republic credits too!”

Mando only hesitates a second more before saying, “Tell the cook we’re in. We leave in two hours.” 


	8. Din Djarin

They had been flying for almost two weeks now, taking their time on route for Naboo. With how tight the ship was for the four of them, Din was making sure they stopped planetside at least every other day. They were an untested crew still, after all. And to be honest, Din was still working on catching up on his sleep deficit. The kid had taken to Jul immediately, and while he was still a mischievous womp rat, now they had Jul to tell the difference between his bored, hungry, and sleepy tantrums. She _got_ him, on a level Din was frankly envious of. He knew Jul had the Force to help her, but still, Cara had been right, she was good with kids the way Din remembered Paz being, always with the right word or toy or distraction to diffuse situations and avert tears. It was not foolproof, but it was better than Din could have hoped for. 

It was also fascinating to witness the cousins rekindle their friendship. Din would have never dared think of Carasynthia Dune as girly, and yet, rotation after rotation, the two women would cocoon themselves in their sleeping bags and claim the large bed Din had built in the spare storage space as theirs, talking and giggling instead of actually sleeping. One morning, Cara had emerged from the room for breakfast with her usual disheveled braid nowhere to be seen. Instead, the whole side of her face had been occupied with a more complex version of the hairdo, smaller braids seemingly spiraling around the larger one. When Din had remarked “Nice hair, Dune,” Jul had preened and exclaimed that Cara had always been bad at the traditional Alderaan hairdos. A friendly fight had followed, where Cara had shot back that Jul was only good at doing it on others, and couldn’t do it on herself either after all. Jul had retaliated that Cara couldn’t do it on others at all, and barely on herself. Din had smiled to himself under the helmet and gone back to feeding the kid.

The food was another marvelous change. Din was, as Cara had complained many times, only good at making a few very basic things. He ate rations most of the time, and had been cooking mostly for the kid’s sake. Despite the limitations of the small galley, Jul did not have any problem coming up with new dishes every rotation. She would always have soup or stew ready for the kid, and he got something live once a day. The first time Din had opened the hold’s storage and been faced with small, jumping toads, he had squealed a bit, he was not too proud to admit. His surprise under control, he had realized Jul had brought onboard a vivarium full of the jumpy creatures. They fed bugs to the toads, then the toads to the kid. They had luckily been landing on planets that all had some form of amphibian to replenish their vivarium with. Beyond the kid, Din was also taking advantage of Jul’s culinary skills. She had seen him unarmored during their first long hyperspace jump, had declared him skinny, and had since then been pushing increasingly large portions of food on him at meal times. Din… didn’t mind. The food was tasty, and it’s not like he was slacking off, thanks to Cara being on board. The two of them sparred while Jul cooked or played with the kid. Din took second meals in the cockpit while the other three ate in the galley. Once Din was done, he would join them and help with cleaning up. Jul always made too much, so they had the choice between an embarrassment of leftovers for third meals, which each of them seem to take at different times. First meal was also less planned, as they all rose at different times according to their sleep and watch schedules. 


	9. Din Djarin

Thirteen days after taking off hidden amongst the Huttmazing Spectacle’s ships, The Razor Crest landed on Naboo. Flying in is nothing short of spectacular. While the damage of the latest war was still visible on the majestic buildings they flew over, it was eclipsed by the grandiose nature, lush and overflowing. The delivery address was a short fly away from the capital, and as they approached a private estate emerged from the jungle. The mansion was half-built, half-carved out of a cliff overseeing one of the planet’s many lakes. Waterfalls surrounded the property, completing the picture of a house lost in the wilds. 

As Din lowered the Crest onto the private spaceport, a central landing pad with several hangars disguised as hills on one side, he got a good glance at the cliff top gardens, where banquet tables, tents, and strings of lights were being set up. 

“Seems like you were right,” he said, pointing.

Jul leaned over, “Oh, maybe it’s a wedding! Look at those rows of chairs, there will be a ceremony at some point.”

They had barely touched ground that a harried-looking man ran over, no less than three datapads under one arm and a holopad, currently projecting, in his free hand.

“Roodarok, I’ve got to call you back, somebody just landed, the musicians I hope, the rehearsal starts in two hours.”

Din and Cara, each carrying a camtono of saffron, and Jul carrying the kid exited the Crest. The man barely slowed down, running to them.

“You don’t look like the musicians, who might you be now?”

Spotting the several weapons upon their persons, the man took a couple of steps back and finally fell silent. Jul seized the opportunity to say, “We have a delivery for Djoolee Atchild. Where could we find her?”

“What in the stars has she ordered that comes with such an escort?!” exclaimed the man, before adding in one breath: “No matter, there’s no time, just go find her in the kitchens. And park your ship in spot 4, would you, the band should be arriving soon. They’re already late actually.” 

The situation thus addressed, the man turned on his heel and headed off, reviewing a checklist on one of his three datapads while messaging somebody on his holo. Unwilling to let the baby – and the two women – out of his sight to get lost in the crowd of a large wedding, Din asked them to wait as he parked the Crest in the designated hangar. 

They headed towards the manor house together, passing orange-clad staff running every which way, pushing hovercrates or carrying baskets full of flowers. They were mostly human, but, here and there, a Gungan’s elastic gait and floppy ears would come and go as well. With a couple of pointed questions, the kitchen wasn’t hard to find. While the mood outside had been hurried, but organized, the kitchen was pure, frantic chaos. 

“Where can we find Djoolee?” asked Jul to the person closest to the door, a boy ferociously pounding dough into submission. 

Without even looking up, the boy answered, “She’s the one yelling the loudest.”

Din took point as they ventured in single file further into the kitchen, an immense room with dozens of work stations criss-crossing the space. Making sure Jul and the kid were safe between himself and Cara, Din carefully picked a path far from any frying oil or any of the burners where cooks, either careless or fireproof, where sauteing vegetables over roaring flames. There was so much action Din had to shoulder a couple of people out of the way, earning himself the invective his armor usually discouraged. 

“Over there!” suddenly yelled Jul, pointing and trying to make herself heard over the cacophony of chopping, shouting, and banging of pots and pans. 

Din was still trying to maneuver himself towards the person she was pointing at, a tall woman wearing a buttercup jacket on top of the orange staff uniform, when Jul broke rank. Dodging elbows, knives, and woks like a loth-cat bent on not being pet, she zig-zagged her way to the chef, who was indeed yelling louder than most, orchestrating the madness. The kid, strapped to her chest, whooped in excitement. Her voice somehow carrying, Jul asked, “Are you Djoolee Atchild? We’ve got your delivery from the Huttmazing Spectacle’s cook.”

“Praise be the Stars! Listen up everybody! Our Chandrilan saffron has arrived.” 

Like a shockwave, the kitchen quieted in stages as the information traveled. Suddenly solemn cooks made way for Din and Cara as they brought the camtonos up to the chef. A countertop space was hurriedly cleared, and the chef entered the codes in the camtonos. They whispered open, revealing sealed jars the chef extracted with great care. Burners were turned off, stations abandoned as the cooks pressed forward. Using a paring knife she drew from her chef’s jacket, Djoolee cut the seals cleanly open, and lifted both tops at the same time. Oohs and aahs traveled through the kitchen as the precious, vibrant pistils were revealed. Din discreetly leaned closer, inhaling. Even through the helmet’s filter, the scent was divine, rich and subtle at the same time. The child sneezed, and the spell broke. 

“Enough gawking! Back to your stations people, the Queen won’t cook for her own coronation now.”

Her cooks properly chastised, Chef Atchild used a clean chopstick to check the containers, confirming it was saffron throughout. Satisfied, she transferred careful spoonfuls of it into some smaller jars, before closing both containers and returning them to the camtonos. Those locked, she turned to Jul. 

“You have my thanks. The product is as promised.”

She called a woman over, instructing her to deliver the jars to various other cooks. The woman took off at all speed, demonstrating the same talent as Jul for slipping unharmed through the throng of activity. 

“We were glad for the job,” said Jul politely, “It’s not every day I get to see Chandrilan saffron up close.” 

“You’re a cook too, I can tell. You knew it was the real deal the instant it hit your nose, didn’t you.” 

“Sure did, chef. No other saffron has that roundness of smell.” 

Din was getting a bit impatient to leave, as he stood there like a large, useless lump, people grumbling as they had to detour around him to get by. Clearing his throat to get their attention, he asked, “What about payment?”

Looking at Jul, the chef commented, “He’s one of few words, heh.” Turning back to him, she added, “I’ll see to it. If you stick around for a couple of hours, I’m happy to send you off with leftovers too. People always skip the rehearsal.” 

Din looked at Cara, who shrugged. Din looked at Jul, who made fathier eyes. Din looked at the kid, who was fascinated by the activity around him, wide awake and excited. Sighing, Din said, “That is agreeable.” 

“Perfect!” enthused the chef, “Two strong individuals such as yourselves, I’m sure you can get some credits off of the decor gal, I know she tried to steal my bakers because a couple of her staff didn’t show up. That one, I’m keeping here.”

Jul nodded with equal fervor, and that was it. Din grabbed the kid, strapped him to his back, and spent the next couple of hours lifting tables and moving chairs.


	10. Din Djarin

Din and his crew were sitting on top of the hangar-disguised-as-a-hill, enjoying the sunset and the cooler air it brought. The guests had arrived, dinner had been served then cleared, and now, from their viewpoint, they could see small shapes in the distance sitting in neat rows. The chef had kept her promise, and Jul had come back from the kitchen with enough food for several days. They were picnicking atop the hill, Din sneaking food under the edge of his helmet as the women discussed the ceremony below, comparing it to various similar festivities as they remembered them from Alderaan. When the sun aligned with the altar, a priest or official of some kind, Din wasn’t sure, stepped forward, brandishing something too small to distinguish. The Queen of Naboo, steady despite the many layers of her voluminous outfit, a headdress like a tropical flower haloing her head, walked slowly up the aisle. Din shoved a small quiche in his mouth, which turned out both fishy and sweet. After the first surprise, he sought out the bag they were in and grabbed a couple more. 

Cara’s laughter brought his attention back to the dry-run of the ceremony, where the officiant turned out to be too short to reach the Queen’s head. A stool was brought, the man from when they had landed at the spaceport came and bowed a whole lot, and before long the officiant draped her headdress with what she’d been brandishing, jewelry of some kind judging by the reflections. The roar of applause lazily floated on the cool breeze to them, muted. Cara and Jul were debating their favorite holidays now, and Din realized they must have been rich bourgeois of some kind, for their family seemed to have owned several homes, and had been invited to functions such as “the Queen’s Address”. 

Below, cheers had been replaced with music. _The band must have made it,_ mused Din, watching people get up and head back for the tents, where the banquet tables were now covered with pastries, fruits, and sweets. Chef Atchild had found Cara and Din outside to hand them the other half of the payment, and had mentioned that, should they wait until after the ceremony, she could have dessert leftovers brought out to them too. Din’s sweet tooth had agreed readily, along with the idea of sitting down outside for a few moments after sweating carrying all that furniture around. Cara and Jul had moved on from their childhood nostalgia to mocking the dessert course – Alderaanians apparently ate sweet and savory throughout, and the two of them found the idea of a separate, after-meal course bizarre. Jul was gesturing wildly with one hand, and trying to feed edamame to the kid with the other, with very limited success. The child only appreciated vegetables once they had been stewing with meat of some kind, and puréed beyond recognition. Noticing the womp rat’s behavior, Cara burst out laughing.

“Jul, stop, he’s just spitting them out,” she explained. 

Looking down at the carnage of slimy edamame, Jul shook her head.

“It’s like he’s a reverse vegetarian or something.”

“Maybe he feels kinship to all things green,” joked Cara, picking up a clean bean that had a single pea in its oval pod and pretending to compare it to the child.

“I think you’re right, Tia: pea,” Jul said, circling the child’s round, wrinkly face with a finger, “pod,” she added, gently pinching the child ears with three fingers on each side, and pulling them out as she opened her arms. 

The kid giggled, and she reiterated the gesture: one finger circling his face, then three on each ear, drawing them out. 

“Peapod, that’s a cute nickname. What do you think, Mando?” 

“Better than womp rat,” admitted Din.

Shuffling closer to the kid, Din asked, “What do _you_ think? Peapod? You like that?”

The kid’s face lit up with a smile and he reached his tiny, clawed hands towards Din, whose heart flopped like a dying fish. Din picked his foundling up, regretting he was fully armored and couldn’t cuddle the kid properly. Somebody sighed, and Din leaned back, looking up at his crew. Jul lifted her hand to her heart and sighed again, “You guys,” she said, “all the _feelings_ , urg, I can’t take it.”

Leaning over the food between them, uncaring of the slobbery beans she was crushing, Jul embraced her cousin and Din both, bringing all of them together and bundling Peapod in the center. Din stiffened, but Cara just rolled with it, adding her arms to the hug, and Din let go, accepting their warmth. In a moment, they would entangle, and he would attempt to feed the kid some more. At some point, somebody would bring them dessert. Then they would pack up, and take off, and travel to the next planet. _This is good_ , Din thought, _I will enjoy it while it lasts_.


	11. Din Djarin

Based on Jul’s bare information about the Force, Din had decided they needed to get more information from trustworthy sources. Their pockets now weighted with credits, there was no reason to delay. Fuel being stupidly expensive on Naboo, he had fueled up just enough to hop to the nearest Outer Rim planet. Cara had taken on a small local job – a teenage bail-jumper needed catching – to pass the half-day it would take to refuel and restock supplies. Three adults and a picky child could not survive on leftover mini-quiches forever, after all. Plus, Din needed some one-on-one time with the computer to optimize their next route. 

Sighing in his cockpit seat, Din decided to take a break from his calculations. The computer needed to churn the numbers for a bit. Glancing out the cockpit, he saw Jul sitting on the floor, looking towards a spot Din couldn’t see. Probably keeping an eye on the kid. Stretching his back, Din headed down to the hold to check on the frogs they had bought, hoping they weren’t fighting the last toad from their last batch. He was about to open the storage compartment when a glint of metal caught his eye. Heart kicking up, Din ran to the open ramp: there was Peapod, and holding him, carrying him away, was a droid. Red flooded Din’s memory, the smell of burning plasteel and the sound of explosions. His body shaking with the impact of his father’s running feet. The yells of the dying. The clean silver of the droids reflecting the sun. Faster than his conscious brain, Din’s hand drew his pistol and he fired, nailing the threat in its processor, causing it to drop his foundling. On his next breath, Din heard his mother’s reassurances as she hugged him for the last time, her wrap soft on his cheeks. Distantly, he saw Jul diving for the child, wrapping herself around him as she looked around for their attacker. Din’s heart was beating so fast he feared the beskar armor was the only thing keeping it from falling out of his chest. His parents were gone now, the cellar door had been closed, and he was alone in the darkness. He whimpered. Jul was on the ground, trembling. She was the one crying, he realized. The whimper had been hers, not his. Shaking himself, Din walked towards her. Had the droid hurt her? No, that was not it, he had shot it before she had been anywhere near. And his foundling was safe too, she had him cocooned in her arms. 

Taking a deep breath, then another, Din pushed away the memories. Everybody was safe. Actually, he might have made a bit of a scene, the pit droid was probably just playing with the kid. The mechanic would be displeased. Glancing away from the fuming mess of wires, Din helped Jul up, a task made harder by the fact that she was shaking and holding on to Peapod with both hands. Finally, she tucked him on her hip, freeing an arm so Din could pull her up. She did not let go once standing though, instead pulling Din closer and hugging him. 

“Are you ok?” she whispered.

“I should be asking you that. I must have scared you.” 

The Mandalorian awkwardly returned her embrace, hoping the armor wasn’t digging into her.

“You didn’t. Or rather, your shooting didn’t. Din, are you sure you’re ok?” 

Din’s brain stuttered, and he asked, “You know my name?”

Had Cara spilled the beans? Din tried to peer down at Jul, but she was snuggled close, and the helmet’s edge was in the way. 

“Your parents… were calling it.” 

“You could hear that?”

“Hear it, see it, _feel it_. I… I’ve never had this happen. I think… maybe this little guy is amplifying my powers.” 

She slowly let go of the death grip she had on Din’s, and they both looked down at the child, who was cooing softly, ears sadly drooping.

“How much fear, and pain, has he felt already?” she wondered, “Fifty years, and wanted, chased, for probably most of it.”

“I am glad,” said Din, “now, you are here, he gets to feel joy.” 

“What are you talking about?”

Jul was frowning, looking genuinely confused, and Din found himself explaining reluctantly, “I am not a happy person.”

“Din… That’s not true.”

Din crossed his arms, arguing back, “I just projected my trauma all over the both of you.”

Jul sighed.

“Here, take Peapod,” she said, presenting the child. 

The nickname was still new, and brought an amused smile to Din’s face as the kid perked up, having clearly started to recognize the name as his. The bounty hunter uncrossed his arms and picked him up, one hand under his rump, and the other tickling a bare foot. The child cooed, and Jul waved a triumphant finger in Din’s face, “Ha ha! There, you see. Feel that?”

Din shook his head, amused despite himself.

“It’s not enough, is it, those brief moments?” he wondered aloud.

“It’s better than what he’s known before. Plus, he knows people are not happy all the time. He’s not happy all the time either! He sure hates bath time with a passion.” 

Bypassing Jul’s attempt at humor, Din grumbled, “He’s a kid! He doesn’t know better.” 

“He’s a kid who’s older than us, Din. Give him some credit.” 

The tone was combative, a bit snarky even, and yet Din felt another pang of that joy she had surprised in him, hearing his name on her lips. It felt right, like calling her Jul had become right, but hearing Mando back hadn’t. 

“What now?” she asked, indignant, hands on her hips “Are you laughing at me under there? I can feel something… bubbly.”

Din bit his lip to keep from laughing at her defensive tone, and said instead, in a whisper, “It’s nice, hearing you say my name.” 

Jul’s arms dropped down, and she looked contrite. 

“I… I’m not supposed to use it, am I?”

“Not in front of strangers,” admitted Din, “but Cara already knows it.” 

As if summoned by his words, Cara slammed her way into the hangar, running to them. Hands on her knees, she got out between pants, “Mando… quick… look at this.”

She shoved her holopad at Din, who had to hurriedly pass Peapod to Jul so he could take it. A message was playing, and Cara rewind it to the start with an annoyed gesture when Din failed to be quick enough to do so himself. Greef Karga rose from the device: 

“Cara, there is a bounty that might interest our mutual friend. This job is out of my sector, but it caught my eye. It keeps getting re-issued for failure to be fulfilled. I looked a bit closer at the target. No holo, but a description of a large humanoid wearing full armor and a jetpack. Sure sounds like a Mandalorian to me. Let me know if you’d like to be assigned the job, and I’ll be able to forward what information I have to you.” 

Greef Karga’s silhouette buzzed out of existence, and Cara looked at him, “We’re taking the job, right?”

“Is it asking for capture, or death?” asked Din, his mind roiling with the possibilities. 

“Does it matter? You’re not going to fulfill it anyway, right?” asked Jul.

The two cousins were looking up at him, expectant. Din shook his head no. Twin smiles met his helmet, and he smiled back under his helmet. 

“Tell Karga to assign you the job,” he instructed Cara, “and Jul, let’s pack up and be ready to go as soon as the computer has our new route calculated.”


	12. Din Djarin

All the impatience in the world could not make the Razor Crest’s computer calculate faster, to Din’s usual chagrin, and he surprised himself thinking a nav droid might not be so bad. Chalking the thought up to temporary insanity, Din went back to pacing the cockpit, watching Jul cooking in the galley one way and Cara cleaning her blaster in the co-pilot’s seat, the kid in his pram observing her raptly, on the way back. The information Karga had sent was bare, but it did mention blue as the armor’s color, and the stature described also matched Paz. Of course, there might be other heavy infantry Mandalorians out there angering the wrong people and getting bounties put on their heads. And there was the matter of whomever it was having fought a half-dozen hunters off already. Din both hoped it was Paz, and was scared of the state they would find the man in. Paz was a great warrior, but his soldier’s tactics would be ill-fitted against those of bounty hunters. He was also not a patient man when it came to combat, preferring risking injury and getting it over with than playing the waiting game. That strategy usually served him well because he was also an abysmal sharpshooter. Hopefully nobody the likes of Fennec Shand was on his trail. 

A beep from the console drew Din out of his aimless worrying, and he sat back into the pilot seat. Just a couple more equations to put in, and they would be all set. Spinning his seat around, he told Cara, “Take off in 20 minutes.”

Crossing the cockpit and over the ladder well, Din entered the living quarters. The air was steamy and fragrant. Jul was cooking some meat-filled dumpling over the small stove, the humidity making her hair frizz out of its tie. 

“Jul,” he said, and she jumped, not having heard him enter.

“Din! What’s up? Everything ok?”

Quashing the thrill of delight at hearing his name, the Mandalorian answered, “We’re leaving in 20 minutes. Will you be done?”

“Oh sure, these just take a few minutes per batch, I can stop whenever. Here, have one.”

She handed him a cooler dumpling from a pile of already cooked ones, and Din removed a glove to accept the offering. Since she had realized they could all eat together if Din could sneak things under his barely tilted helmet, Jul had been cooking more and more bite-sized dishes. It was thoughtful, yet completely unnecessary, as Din did not care much for sharing meals given his upbringing, but he did not know how to bring it up. So he used his ungloved hand to pluck the dumpling off her fingers, unsealed his helmet, and slipped the morsel under the helmet’s lip and into his mouth. 

The thin dough burst open at the first bite, delivering its meaty flavor straight to Din’s palate. The spices, more subtle than he was used to, came second as he chewed: oregano, rosemary, another herb he couldn’t place, and then paprika, maybe a hint of chili pepper. Without a word, he extended his hand for a second dumpling, and she passed him one. 

“It’s good,” Din said before shoving the next one in.

Not bothered by his lackluster compliment, Jul remarked.

“I was too lazy to make two batches, so they’re not as spicy as you like.”

“Jul, it’s good,” insisted Din. 

Rolling her eyes, she answered, “No need to lie, I can tell. They’re good, but not amazing.” 

“I ate ration bars at every meal before you joined the crew.”

Jul made a horrified face, and shooed him out of the kitchen. 

“I’ll pretend I didn’t know that already, and keep steaming these for the 15 more minutes I have.”

Letting himself be bodily pushed out, Din walked back over to the cockpit. 

“Food is ready,” he announced, and sat in his chair. 

Cara, who was finishing putting her blaster back together, did not acknowledge him but asked Peapod, “What do you think, kid, have a bite before your father shakes us through atmo?”

“I’m a smooth flyer!” protested Din.

Cara holstered her blaster, grabbed the child, and with an aside loud enough for the whole ship to hear, told the kid, “Good thing you’ve got a cast-durasteel stomach, heh?”

The child, that traitor, just giggled and followed Cara into the living quarters when she put him down, waddling after her. Din grumbled to his ship as he went through the pre-flight checks, “Ils sont tellement occupés à se goinfrer, je te parie qu'ils ne le remarquent même pas, le décollage.” ( _They’re so busy stuffing their faces, I bet you they won’t even notice taking off.)_

Din sometimes talked to the Crest in his birth language, a habit he had formed to keep the tongue alive in his memory as he learned new ones. Having crew on board had not discouraged it, as it infuriated Cara and Jul both, who despite their traveling had not seemed to pick up much more than swear words in other languages. 

The computer chimed its final confirmation that the hyperspace jumps had been entered correctly, and Din smiled to himself, powering the engines up as progressively as possible. He radioed the tower, got the ok to take off, and did so as gently as he knew to, the Crest lifting like a hot air lantern on a windless day, the town, the continent, and finally the whole planet falling behind as they entered the vastness of space. 


	13. Din Djarin

A few hours and three hyperspace jumps later, Din’s worry came back. The planet they were heading to was in a vaguely familiar system. The whole Meram sector was rife with small-time, power-hungry warlords, poor peasants lured in by the promise of land ownership only to realize serfdom was the truth of their new situation, and the criminal types who profited from both. They were so many unclear variables with the job, and Din had a hard time picking which equipment to arm himself with. The whistling birds, the flamethrower, and the jetpack, for sure. Maybe his grappling line? What about his Amban rifle? The terrain was unknown, as was opposition. 

“You ok there, Mando?”

Din turned away from contemplating his armory and towards Cara as she walked to him from the ladder. 

“The puck was not very informative,” he said.

Understanding his dilemma, Cara pointed at the Amban rifle, “Take this one, cover me from a distance. This way you can stay with Jul and the kid.”

Din shook his head, “They’re not coming.” 

“What if the other Mando is injured? She has to come, and so the kid comes too, and so you stay with them and cover me from afar.”

The bounty hunter considered the shock trooper’s point. She was right, sadly. 

“I should go first, or you’re liable to get shot by the Mandalorian,” argued Din.

“I’m an ok shot, but I’m no sniper. Plus, if I could take you, I can take that other Mando.”

Din shuddered to imagine Cara and Paz fighting hand-to-hand, but she was right. She would hold her own long enough to tell her opponent she came to rescue him. Din reached for and equipped the Amban rifle. He added a couple of closer range blasters for good measure, and checked his vibroblade by habit. 

“What about Jul?” he asked. 

Cara turned to the ladderwell, “Jul! Are you geared up? Mando wants to review the troops.” 

“One minute!”

Din was still resupplying his bandolier with rifle cartridges when Jul slipped down the ladder. Din barely recognized her. She usually favored earthy, warm tones: light browns, ochres, dark reds. Now she was wearing body armor, similar to Cara’s but in green nuances. The dark green bodysuit was layered with more vibrant, forest green armor plating. Her chest piece was stamped with a white healer’s symbol. A pistachio green pack completed the ensemble, as well as a partial helmet the same color as her plating dangling from her hip.

“Good thing I mostly saw action on jungle planets, heh,” she remarked just as Din spotted the child, sticking out of her large pack and rather well camouflaged. 

“I still have trouble believing you were part of the rebellion this whole time,” remarked Cara, fiddling with some of the straps on Jul’s armor.

Jul batted her hands away and started the process of fitting her hair under her helmet, accentuating the contrast between her usual self and this combat-ready, frankly quite attractive stranger. 

“Oh, and Din, the med pack is armored too, so the kid will be safe.” 

Still reeling as he watched his pacifist cook strap on a couple of blades and what looked suspiciously like a blowtorch, Din repeated, “The med pack is armored?”

“I think it’s meant to avoid costly bacta from getting wasted, but I didn’t mind the extra insurance.”

She turned around and the pack indeed bore the telltale burn marks of blaster shots. Her entire attire had clearly seen some action, the knee pads were worn and the armor plating’s paint was chipped in multiple spots. Din turned to Cara, who seemed to be a bit shocked as well, coming back for a second attempt at tightening Jul’s armor straps. Jul pushed her hands away again, annoyed, and complained, “It’s like you’ve never seen somebody gear up!”

“I’ve never seen _you_ gear up,” Cara shot back. 

Din watched Jul fasten a small vibroblade’s sheath to her thigh, and he added:

“What happened to being a pacifist?”

Jul smiled and announced cheerfully, “This is to cut through clothes and armor,” she pointed to the vibroblade, “that’s for field amputation and surgery,” she pointed to the machete and knife at her waist, “and this is for cauterisation,” she pointed to the blowtorch-looking device. 

Cara hastily walked a couple of steps backwards, away from her cousin, and Din couldn’t blame her. He was no stranger to pain and to fixing up his injuries on the go, but the glee with which Jul had described her tools and their uses was unsettling. Unsettling and bit arousing – she clearly knew what she was doing.

“Also, I’m non-violent, not suicidal. If somebody is actively shooting at me, I’ll knock them out.” 

With that declaration, Jul proceeded to strap on a shoulder holster in which she placed a deceptively small weapon, a stunner pistol Din had once before had the misfortune to encounter. It was unreliable at any range but close, but then, it disabled electronics and knocked out organics. Patting herself one last time, Jul declared, “Ok, now I’m ready. What’s the plan, fearless leader?”

“Cara took the job, so it should be straightforward: find the Mandalorian, announce our good intentions, go from there.”


	14. Din Djarin

“I thought Cara took the job, making this easy peasy!” yelled Jul, attempting to cover the kid’s ears as Cara lobbed another concussive grenade towards the mercenaries. The motley group of fighters was gathered in front of the mine, the very one where locals had told them the “armored giant” had taken refuge . Din was stricken with irrepressible laughter as Jul’s hands fell short of protecting all of Peapod’s large ears. The grenade blew up, the kid made a face, and the mercs scattered further. Aiming carefully with the Amban rifle, Din picked off a couple of them as they ran for cover before answering Jul, mirth still in his voice, “They’re mercenaries, not hunters! Eager clients will hire both if they have the funds.”

Cara broke cover to get closer to the entrance of the mine, her grenade and Din’s sharpshooting having sent the group below into disarray. Din protected her advance down the hill with a couple more shots of the Amban rifle. Once Cara rolled out of the line of fire behind a couple of crates, Din slung his rifle to his back and switched to a blaster. If the Mandalorian was indeed hiding within the tunnels, they would wait for the shooting to stop before investigating. It was just Cara down there, against over a half-dozen mercs. 

“I have to get closer to support Cara. Stay here, and stay hidden.”

Din waited for Jul’s confirmation and made his way towards Cara, zigzagging down the slope as Cara distracted the reorganizing mercs with heavy blaster fire. He liked fighting alongside the shock trooper: they had both been trained to be part of a unit, but had since fought plenty on their own, and so their reflexes were similar, and complimentary. He could count on her to hold her own, but knew that she had his back if he asked, the way he had hers if she made it known she needed his support.

Din came to a crouch behind a toppled hover cart, a few feet from the crates covering Cara. They gestured back and forth, until Cara rolled her eyes and used her comlink to tell him she’d take the three on the left if Din could distract the four on the right. Before Din could protest her nuna-brained plan, she was gone and charging with a yell and a blaster shot. With a sigh, Din followed suit, dodging bolts of energy and closing on the leftover mercenaries on the right. The mercenaries left were, however, the best of the bunch, and Din’s blaster got shot out of his hand before he could dispatch any of them. 

“Stop, or we shoot him!” yelled a Nautolan, an antique but perfectly functional shotgun aimed at Din. 

Cara paused her assault with two of her three opponents still standing. For a second, silence reigned. With another sigh at the expense of the precious darts, Din flicked his wrist and sent four whistling birds flying. Taking advantage of Cara’s mercs’ fascination for the morbid spectacle of their comrades falling, Din drew his second blaster and shot the one closest to his friend. Shaken out of her own contemplation, Cara made quick work of the remaining mercenary. 

The both of them breathed, just for a while, enjoying the peace and quiet, at least until Jul popped her head over the ledge and yelled, “Are we good? It’s over? Can we come down now?”

Cara shook her head and shouted back, “Yell a bit louder, would, you, just in case there’s a straggling mercenary who doesn’t know where you are yet.”

Jul, who had not waited for the go ahead to start going down the slope, whipped around to check her back, before turning back to her cousin.

“Ha ha, real funny, Tia” she said.

Her helmet hid her face, and Din, with her expressive face hidden, found it harder to tell if she was truly annoyed at Cara, or just playing along. Jul checked each corpse she encountered, confirming they were indeed dead. The ones she established were only unconscious, she tied up and disarmed. Din, who usually didn’t stick around long enough to check one way or the other, only got the idea to help by the time she was mostly done. 

When they both turned to the mine entrance, Cara was waiting, arms crossed. She likely thought it was a waste of time, reasonned Din, but she kept her disagreement to herself. The three of them entered the mine, which after a first, larger room, branched into tight tunnels that made Din uneasy, despite his years taming the darkness of Nevarro’s underground. 

“What now?” asked Cara. 

Din activated his helmet’s enhanced vision, but Paz had either left no tracks, or had come by long enough ago that his steps were mixing with those of the miners before him. 

“We’ll have to explore,” he admitted. 

Jul pushed her way to the front of the group, joking, “On a mission with two competent bounty hunters, and it’s the medic that saves the day.” 

She extended a hand forward, and seemed to… palpate the air. 

“There _is_ somebody around,” she said, and her voice was strained with focus.

She dropped her hand after a minute, panting. She gestured to the leftmost tunnels and added, “It’s faint, but it’s somewhere over there.” 

“So much for the medic saving the day,” teased Cara. 

“Actually...” 

Jul slipped her pack to the front, opening the top fully. A green face and its long ears popped out immediately.

“Do you think we could do it together, Peapod?”

The child, seemingly unbothered by the darkness Din’s headlight only partially chased away, chittered and wiggled until he could poke his hand out of the bag. His clawed fingers extended, remarkably similar to Jul’s earlier position. The focus on his little face was comical, and Din refrained from laughing. He glanced over to Cara, expecting to see her smiling, but she looked tense, and grumbled, “Can you go faster?”

“Quiet back there, please,” enjoined Jul. 

The woman turned towards the tunnels to the left and placed an ungloved hand on the child’s head, pointing the other forward as she had done before, feeling the air. She talked to Peapod, a murmur too low for Din to catch, and they both strained. Compelled by the intensity of their postures, the Mandalorian stepped forward. His foundling’s focus was now pained, and he worried. He was about to say something, when Jul whispered, “I can see him… just a bit more, cutie, you’re doing great.”

Seconds ticked by, and Din worried: this was too much, they were going to hurt themselves.

“Jul...”

“It’s ok, Peapod, let go, I’ve got it, I’ve got him.” 

With a soft coo, the child immediately lowered his arm, tucking himself back into the bag, his whole body disappearing. Din closed the distance and peered inside the bag, careful not to blind the kid with his headlight. 

“He’s okay, Din, just napping.” 

Jul’s gentle murmur reassured the bounty hunter, and he helped her rearrange the pack’s content to make a more comfortable nest for Peapod. 

“Can we move, now?” asked Cara, and the tension in her voice clued Din in: she wasn’t a fan of the dark, then. 

“Easy, Tia, we’re alone but for Din’s friend. Give me a second.”

Jul’s voice was warm and steady, but her hands were shaking as she took a ration bar out of her pack and fumbled it open. She ate the whole thing, made it go down with a couple swallows from her cantine, and then moved the pack to her back. 

“Ok, let’s go.” 

Jul led them on a tortuous path deeper into the mine. It was not the obscurity that was bothering Din, he realized, but the oppressive atmosphere formed by the low ceilings, the already tight space crowded with machinery, and the wet, cold smell of tons of soil and rock ready to crush them. Jul advanced unaffected, her foot sure, starting to turn corners before Din’s light even hit them. When a shaft appeared on their path, she did not startle, merely coming to a stop a safe distance away. She pointed down it. 

“He’s at the bottom. Injured, but probably unconscious.” 

She grasped a stick at the side of her pack and shook it. Cold light poured out.

“We’re here to help!” she yelled towards the shaft, before throwing the glow stick down it. 

A couple of seconds passed before it thunked on something below. No response, no sound of movement, no shooting. Jul turned her head towards Din.

“You go first,” she said, “You’ve got better armor and you’ve got a familiar face, in case he’s awake.” 

Din turned off his headlight, approached the shaft, kneeled, and slowly stuck his head over the edge. The only light was the pale glow beneath, just enough to show a Mandalorian sitting leaned on the wall, weapon at the ready. The heavy blaster cannon was stupidly excessive for such close quarters, the blue armor had more dings and missing parts than the last time he had seen it, and the man inside the suit was out cold. But it was Paz, glorious Paz Vizsla. Din breathed in, and out, and a weight of worry he had carried without the time to address lifted. Paz was alive, and Din was complete again. 

“We will need a crane,” the bounty hunter said. 


	15. Paz Vizsla

I’ve never liked regaining consciousness. I mean, it beats being dead, don’t get me wrong, but there’s something especially disagreeable to having passed out in one place, having made peace with death, only to wake up somewhere else, body wracked with pain, and with death still very much an option down the line.

At least, I’m still helmeted, so there’s that.

Looking around, it seems I’m in a room halfway between a hotel’s and a hospital’s. The bed is definitely a medical one, the kind that can be inclined many ways and with guardrails. I’m not wearing my armor, but I’m also not shackled to the guardrails. They are a pain to break through and I’m already suffering as it is, so it’s another definite plus. The walls of the room are a cosy ochre, with some kind of generic abstract art pieces screwed in. Through the window, I see rain outside, falling in sheets. Well, I’m not on Cryon anymore then. Could be the next planet over though, in the same system. It’s further from the star, and so not arid like Cryon. Can’t recall the name, though. What with my head aching on top of my ribs, and legs, and everything else.

“Hey, Mando, do you have a minute?”

The voice reaches me muffled through the door, clearly not addressed to me. Meaning there’s another Mandalorian on the scene: this is getting better.

“Lowu. What can I do for you?”

And that! Praise Manda! That’s Din’s baritone, modulated and lovely, music to my ears.

“I’m sorry, man, but I’m running out of supplies. I’ve got one more round of bacta, and that’s it.”

Ah. Things were going too well, there had to be a catch.

“If credits are the issue, I can get you more.”

“You’re sweet, but that’s not it. My last shipment never arrived. Snatched by some pirates in the Thessalia system yesterday. There isn’t any other… _legal_ trade routes I can use.”

“And the less legal ones?”

“Hit or miss. Pills filled with flour, expired bacta, contaminated bandages… I’d rather not risk it.”

Din’s sigh reaches me despite the door between us.

“How fast can you locate the pirates? Ideally before they have time to resell your shipment.”

Ah, Din, a Mandalorian after my own heart.

“You’re serious? You’d take them on?”

“Bacta may be rare in this system, but ammunition is abundant. My ship and crew are fully ready.”

I like where this conversation is going, especially if it gets me some more painkillers. My brain is getting fuzzy, and while I want to hear the end of this conversation, I’m a fan of sleeping to avoid pain.

“What about the kid?” asks Lowu.

The kid? Ah, Din still has his foundling with him then. No luck on finding his family.

“Jul and him will stay here.”

Who’s that? I guess Din did mention a crew.

“You might need your medic, though.”

“I did without for years.”

“I know, but man, you’re a father now. You gotta come back. No more hoping there will miraculously be handsome healers-in-training to take care of you.”

There’s something in Lowu’s words and smiling tone that jogs my blurry memory, but before I can put it together, a wave of pain scatters my thoughts. For the next little while, I focus on breathing, and let Din’s voice, the amicable conversation, and the gentle pitter patter of the rain lull me to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lowu and Din have crossed paths before in [_Take a Deep Breath_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26669305). No doubt Din told Paz about all about it!


	16. Paz Vizsla

The second awakening goes better. The pain has faded to a body-wide dull ache. I simultaneously need to down a tall glass of water and take a leak. That’s a good sign. What woke me up, though, is somebody’s low voice as they change a bandage on my leg. They are narrating each step of the process in a soothing tone. I crack my eyes open, able to spy on them under the helmet, carefully to keep breathing deep like I was still asleep. The woman looks to be in her thirties, voluminous brown hair, medium dark skin. Beautiful dark eyes she turns on me with a smile. 

“You’re awake. How are you feeling?”

It takes a couple of throat clearings before I can get out, “Alive, which is unexpected.” 

“We found you on time. The concussion wasn’t easy to diagnose and treat with the helmet on, but you’re out of the woods now.” 

“Concussion, ok. What else?”

I try to get out of bed and she offers her arm. I wave her away and she shakes her head, “I wouldn’t have enough fingers to enumerate it all. Most of it is healed now, but be gentle with your ribs, they’ll feel sore for a while.”

“What about my leg?”

I test it, putting more and more weight on it until I can stand. It feels cramped but otherwise intact. 

“Oh, I’m working on the scarring. Functionally, you’ll be fine.”

My trip to the refresher is quick and I stick to the essentials. I feel shaky by the time I lie back down, but a blurry memory involving Din and some pirates has resurfaced. 

“You should not waste supplies on the scarring,” I tell the woman, who is packing up her healer bag. 

She wiggles her fingers at me and says:

“No worries, I’m using the Force. The kid showed me a couple of tricks. I’m not very good yet, I’m afraid. You’ll still have lovely war wounds to brag about.”

What force is she talking about? And is the kid she mentioned Din’s foundling? 

“Forgive a recently concussed man, but I do not fully follow.”

“Oh, right! Din thinks about you so much, I feel I know you already.”

She extended a hand towards him: 

“Hello Paz, I’m Julandielle Dune. You can call me Jul. Din hired me to be his kid’s caretaker. I’m also the crew’s cook and medic.”

It takes my painkiller addled mind a while to process the whole thing as I shake the offered hand. Jul, nanny, cook, medic. Check. Crew? Din has a crew now? Wait, did she call me Paz? And him Din?

“You know my name?”

The expression on her face is not unlike that of a kid who has to admit they misplaced their helmet.

“To my defense, he was thinking it very loudly,” she explains.

Wonders never cease, and Din really has a knack for stumbling upon them.

“You are a telepath?”

“Of sorts. I’m fully human, but I am what’s called Force-sensitive. Din’s child is much more powerful than me, and being in contact with him augments my skill.” 

“That small green being?”

She nodded. 

“Where is he?”

With a smile, she asks, “The green child, or the armored man?”

I like this lady, my fuzzy brain thinks. She’s funny. 

“I was thinking of the child, but Din’s whereabouts are of interest to me as well.”

She disappears out the door a moment, and comes back in followed by a pram. It opens soundlessly with a tap on an armband she is wearing, revealing a sleeping child. He is as surprisingly wrinkly and green as he was when Din and him were fleeing Nevarro and all I got to catch was a glance. 

“We’re working on his control. I’m trying to get him not to exhaust himself healing every single scratch on your body. It’s mildly successful. You can thank him for the lack of brain damage.”

I fuss with the child’s blanket. He looks so fragile sleeping like that, clutching his blanket with his tiny clawed hands. Din did not stand a chance, of course he went back for him. I still have trouble understanding how he could let him go in the first place, even with the allure of a full camtono of beskar to bring back to the Covert. 

“ _Vor entye, vorpan’la ad’ika_.” (I owe you one, green child.)

When I lift my eyes back to the woman, her gaze meets mine and she smiles. 

“No debt needed, Paz. Welcome to the crew.”


	17. Paz Vizsla

“Jul,” I say, out of breath, “it is utter madness out there, we need reinforcements.” 

Jul swipes the sweat off her brow and keeps plating tartlets as fast as she can.

“Is Lowu not around?” she asks.

I start piling plates unto my forearm, using the ridges of my vambrace and pauldrons to secure the delicate porcelain. 

“His Fluggrian patient is giving birth.” 

Jul swears in a language I don’t understand, then adds, “I mean, good for the Fluggrian. Epiasse is still at the market?”

“No doubt palpating every muja fruit and pondering its ripeness before buying it.”

Jul rolls her eyes, at me or at the idea of Epiasse taking eir sweet time, I am not sure.

“It’s all on you then, Paz. It’s good for your recovery anyway.”

With a sigh as loud as I can make it, I grab the plate she just finished and run back to the teahouse’s sitting room, where I’m welcomed with cheers. As I serve patrons as fast as I can, they holler left and right, pretending to have ordered first. Mostly, I suspect the local populace to find the sight of a large, heavily armored man having to squeeze between tables to drop off dainty desserts hilarious. At least, I am not the only harried person in the room as Atchee, Epiasse and Lowu’s oldest child, has to not only prepare and serve the customers their tea, but also keep track of who ordered what in order to cash them out. 

With the rain drowning the streets for the last eight day in a row, people are cramming indoors. The Healing Cup is the best place in town to do so with its cozy ambiance, warm drinks, delicious muja tartlets, and the newest talk of the town: me. Din will laugh himself sick when he comes back from stealing Lowu’s shipment back from those pirates, seeing me more sore from a day playing waiter than by a fortnight of combat conditioning. 

By the time the place closes down for the night, I’m utterly exhausted, reclining on an old sofa that only miraculously takes my weight, flanked on one side by Peapod and on the other by Olma, Atchee’s younger sister, who’s finishing her homework. The teenager and Epiasse are at the counter adding up the day’s earnings. When Lowu and Jul join us from the back, they gravitate towards me and the children. Jul, helped by Lowu, lays plates heaped with fragrant foodstuffs on the low table while Atchee, having brewed one last pot of tea, brings it and some cups. Epiasse is the last to sit, bringing with em a datapad ey waves around, crowing, “Another record day of sales! Jul, Mando, are you sure I cannot convince you to ditch the others and join my business instead?”

“The fad will fade, my friend,” I answer. “Once the rain lets up, they’ll realize I’m just a big man in armor, and that they can only eat so many of Jul’s tartlets before dying from the abundance of sweet and fat.”

Jul, who sat next to me and moved Peapod to her lap so she can feed him, finds the gap between my chest and back cuirass plates with a sharp elbow.

“Hey, my tartlets are perfectly balanced, I’ll have you know.”

“Oh, very balanced,” I tease, “half sugar, half butter.”

She retorts something unkind in Huttese, but pushes a plate full of bite-sized delicacies towards me. I let her have the last word in favor of stuffing my mouth full of the miniature dishes she prepared especially so I can eat at the same time as everybody else. I have not been a part of family mealtime since the Covert’s exile to Nevarro, and I have missed it. Stolen snacks in the dark with Din as teenagers, while lovely, had another quality to them altogether. 

I’m dozing off, lulled by the conversation, the good food, the deep couch, and my tired bones, when a knock comes on the teahouse’s locked front door. I immediately wake up, hand reaching for my blaster, but Jul’s incandescent smile stops me. On her lap, food forgotten, the child has perked up as well, and is reaching for the door. Eliasse, who was sitting closest to it, glances through the curtains and hurries to open the door. 

Drenched, but followed by promising crates, Din steps in. His wet beskar gleams in the light, and the sight of his familiar helmet fills my heart with joy. I have gone longer without his presence before, back when he left the Covert on hunts, and yet it is as if a missing part of me has walked in the door. I knew he was fine, but damn, he is _fine_. I rise to welcome him, but Jul beats me to it, stepping around me and crushing him in a hug that sandwiches the kid between them. 

And Din… _Din hugs her back_. 

I would rub my eyes to clear them if I was not wearing a helmet. Well, then. I missed a couple episodes of Din’s Love Escapades, it would seem. 

“Ah, I see, and I’m just yesterday’s news, aren’t I?”

Stepping from behind the crates and pushing them fully inside is a soggy and yet no less marvelous woman. Armor-clad, tattooed, muscular, a glance at her put-upon moue and cocked hip suffice to inform me she possesses the kind of attitude that would guarantee her a couple of marriage proposals before the end of the night at any Mandalorian social occasion. Must Din always be such a lucky bastard?! 

Letting go of Din, but leaving him Peapod, Jul goes on to hug the other woman, and the banter that immediately gets going confirms this is Cara, the cousin Jul mentioned during my convalescence. At that point, I have reached the touching scene, and Din grabs my forearm in a clasp, then, awkwardly, moves it to my nape and boinks my forehelm with his. 

“Hey there,” he says, and I scold my heart for the fluttering Din’s voice elicits. 

I answer, as put-together as I can manage, “ _Su cuy'gar_.” (Hello, lit. you’re still alive.)

“I almost can’t say the same for you, _vod_ (brother).” 

Din is not a man of many words, but I hear the relief in his voice and in the way he holds me tight. When we come apart, the cousins are watching us, twin smiles on their faces. The armored goddess offers her hand, “Hi, Big Blue. Good to see you on your feet. I’m Cara.”

We shake hands, and I take note of the firm grip.

“My thanks for the rescue.”

A grin stretches her lips, “Nah, I got to take down some mercs, that’s thanks enough in my book.”

I turn my head to Din, and he shrugs, self satisfied. I know the bastard is smirking under that helmet of his. It is really unfair how he somehow attracts perfect partners everywhere he goes. The women are going back towards the table, Cara greeting the others and mentioning she wants a bite to eat before even a shower. I’m about to follow when Din stops me with a hand on my pauldron, and leans in close, whispering, “Cara is just a friend, so you know.” My head swivels towards her, my silence eloquent, and Din adds, “You’re welcome,” before swaggering away, his kid in one arm.

I could kiss him, but well, it can wait. I’ve got some seducing to do.


	18. Din Djarin

All good things must come to an end, and the rainy, restful parenthesis at the Healing Cup was no exception. Recovering Lowu’s supplies from the pirates had been surprisingly easy - they did not expect a Mandalorian and an ex-shock trooper to show up for them. Paz, judging by the amount of flirting he was currently engaged in with Cara, was fully recovered from his mining adventure. The heavy infantry had grumbled, but had agreed to give up a durasteel piece of his armor. Cara had gone and used it to claim the contract on his head as complete. The warlord who had issued the bounty had not been very happy with the lack of body, but took Cara’s word and holos of Paz splayed at the bottom of the mine shaft for truth. The lack of beskar, her real intent behind the bounty, had meant a smaller fee, but it had still been enough to fuel up the Crest. 

Now, with the Crest ready to go, and a group of four healthy adults and one child with a black hole for a stomach, Din did not feel comfortable imposing on their hosts any longer. Especially since Lowu had refused payment for treating Paz, saying recovering his shipment had been enough. As for room and board, Jul’s stint baking for the Healing Cup had apparently been so beneficial to Epiasse’s business that the salary ey had paid her had covered it, and then some. She was busy doing some last minute baking at the moment, muttering to herself about the lack of oven onboard the Crest. After poking his head in the kitchen and checking that Peapod was hanging out with her, Din moved to the front room. A handful of customers were chatting or playing games, paying Paz and Cara no mind. 

The two of them were going over the ammunition and weaponry inventory, “just in case,” and despite Din having told them their next stop would be of the peaceful sort. He suspected it was an excuse to boast to each other about their fighting exploits. Honestly, Din had been expecting Paz’s infatuation, seeing how Cara was the perfect partner by Mandalorian standard, minus the armor. The bounty hunter had not, however, expected Cara to reciprocate the feeling. She had never showed interest in men before, and yet, the minute she had laid eyes on Paz, her stride had gone a thousand percent more sashay. Now, they were being so obnoxious Din was regretting ever telling Paz all the pickup lines he’d been subjected to through the years. Paz was using them in an ironic way that had Cara hit him in the shoulder and preen. 

“Disgusting, right. If it wasn’t my cousin we’re talking about, I’d make a bet on how long it takes them to bang.” 

Startled, Din turned towards Jul. She cocked her hip, looked up at him, batted her eyelashes and added, in a sweet voice, “A full Imperial battalion? Reminds me of when my unit was dropped on So-and-So. We fought a thousand to one… and won, of course.” 

The imitation was both over the top and on-point, and Din laughed. 

“Let’s go tell the lovebirds it’s time to go,” he said.

“Urg, must we really be stuck with them on the Crest for ten days?”

“They both want to come along.”

Jul smiled, a small thing that curved her lips in a way Din could never keep himself from noticing, and handed him a small, oblong pastry with a bump in the middle. 

“Here, for courage,” she said. 

Din took it, quickly sneaking it under his helmet. The smell of almonds assaulted his senses right before he popped the treat in his mouth. It was no Mandalorian dessert, no, it was light and melted on his tongue, the aroma of almond taking a stronger, very slightly bitter tone that rang a bell deep inside. The taste hit him like a mudhorn to the chest. Suddenly he could hear his parents’ voices, discussing something his young self had no interest for, as they sat at the dinner table. Din was stealing one of the delicate pastries off of the central plate, more than his allotted share, while his father, who had baked them, had his back turned. His mother winked, and buyoded by her secret agreement, he shoved the whole thing in a mouth too small for it, struggling to chew and swallow before his father caught him. The memory had the quality of an often-repeated game, and, under the helm, Din savored the pastry, nostalgia making his throat tight and swallowing almost hurtful. 

When he eventually focused on Jul again, she turned tear-filled eyes away and leaned her head on his shoulder. Looking at Paz and Cara laughing together, she said, sadness in her voice:

“I guess I got it right, huh.”

It took a little while for Din to compose himself, and while part of him hated that she could likely feel him struggle so, another felt seen, and comforted by the weight of her leaning on him. Eventually, he asked, “How did you know?”

“You’re from Aq Vetina, that much I could put together from…” 

She made a vague gesture, but she didn’t need to explain further. How she’d seen through his eyes with the kid’s help was still fresh in Din’s mind. The bounty hunter was silent for a while, wondering how she’d managed to identify not just his planet of origin but his favorite dessert from a few seconds of anguish. Eventually, he asked, “How did you know which one to make?”

He had few memories of his years before being adopted by the Mandalorians, but he did recall going to a shop full of many different desserts. Secretly, he cherished his own inclinaison towards anything sweet as a remnant of his original upbringing. Jul was taking a long time to answer, and so he turned to her more fully. She stepped away slightly, and he quashed the urge to sway towards her as her weight left his side. Her answer came a bit fast, and with her gaze fixed back towards the kitchen.

“You don’t like all and any sweet dishes, only those that have a balance in them, something other than sugar. You really like things that are slightly bitter. At first, I thought maybe chocolate, but it’s a Core thing. In the end, I figured either madeleines or macarons. Something almond-based for sure.”

Astonished she had put so much thought into it, Din poked her shoulder, waiting for her to turn to him before saying, “ _Merci_. That is, thank you. You were right, madeleines were my favorite. Still would be, if I could procure any.” 

Din felt unworthy of the joy on her face, as she bit her lower lip and announced, “Well… I’ve made more than one, that’s for sure. I’ve packed some to share but…”

Darting back into the kitchen, she brought back a tin she shoved at him. 

“That one’s just for you!” she announced, and immediately disappeared back into the kitchen, the clang of pots and rushing of water coming soon after as she dove into cleaning up. Protected under his helmet, Din let a smile bloom on his face. He might not have Paz’s charming wit or Cara’s physicality, but maybe, just maybe, he was doing fine for himself still.


	19. Din Djarin

It had been a little over six hours in hyperspace, and Din was already feeling cooped up. He was not used to having so many people aboard the Razor Crest, and everywhere he turned he stumbled on somebody. He had fled the hold when Cara and Paz started sparring, not wanting to be collateral damage to their aggressive courting. Jul had been in the living quarters, training with Peapod, floating berries around the space. By the third time a juicy impact upon his person had happened, he had realized he was distracting them both, and had retreated to the cockpit. 

He could always check the flight path for optimization, he reasoned, and he got absorbed into calculations. Taking the Perlemian Trade Route into the Inner Rim was a safe bet, but there might be shortcuts and fuel efficiencies he could figure out here and there. Birren also was not the cheapest when it came to gas, making a stop in the Mid Rim might be worth coming out of hyperspace. 

A few hours passed before he knew it, and when Din came out of his calculating transe, he felt more settled, calmer. They were not strangers after all, just Cara, Jul, and Paz. The kid and him needed their support. Getting up and stretching, Din realized he had forgotten to feed himself. He had just opened the door to the landing when the door opposite the ladderwell slid open as well. Jul ran out, Peapod on one hip, slamming down the button to close the door behind her. Taken aback, Din stood there, and they looked at each other, wordless. The silence was broken off by a shout, Cara’s jubilant voice goading Paz, “Come-on, Big Blue, show me what you’ve got!”

“They are still sparring?” asked Din, wondering why they were not doing so in the hold. 

“Nope.” 

With that, Jul walked forward, pushing Din back into the cockpit. With nowhere to go, he sat back down in the pilot chair, and Jul handed him Peapod before flopping into the starboard chair. 

“What…”

“You don’t want to know,” interrupted Jul at the same time as a loud thunk and what Din knows to be Paz’s sexy laugh rang through the ship. 

“Oh.” 

Jul got up, closed the door to the cockpit, and settled back down in the chair. 

“I hope you’ve got a couple datapads with some books loaded on somewhere in here. This might take a while.”

With a sigh, Din admitted, “They are all in my cabin.”

The kid chose that moment to trill, and Jul shook her head, “You’re right, cutie. Scintillating conversation it is, then.” 


	20. Cara Dune

Cara has had her fair share of partners through the years. She tends to prefer women over men, in particular the ones who like to swoon in the arms of a stronger woman. She likes to take the lead, show off, be the strong one. And yet… The minute she sees that large Mandalorian in his patchy heavy armor, delivering dainty plates of cake, she wants him. It makes no sense, it runs contrary to all her usual inklings, and in particular it’s a break of her chief directive to never sleep with somebody she can’t overpower in case things go wrong. So when he starts flirting with all the subtlety of a bantha in a glass shop, she answers in kind with the idea that they won’t go far.

Except, well… Except she really wants him. He is funny and over the top, and when she tells him she’s only looking for a fling, he agrees immediately. He’s also got brains under the brawn, and she honestly enjoys his stories about Mandalorian training and culture, about the missions he has gone on. She loves Mando, that is Din, like a brother, but he’s a reserved one. Paz has no such qualms. He shares his name readily, tells her stories that are rife with details and colours. He has the soul of a poet, and she finds herself thinking he would have loved Alderaan and her family. She toes the line, tells herself they don’t have to sleep together, that she’s enjoying the flirting as it is.

They don’t last a full day in hyperspace before she grabs Paz Vizsla and locks the both of them in her cabin.

The heavy infantry lets himself be led, Cara slamming him on the cabin door as it comes shut behind them. “Come-on, Big Blue, show me what you’ve got,” she jokes, running her hands down his chest plate and to the unyielding bump of his codpiece.

The man chuckles, leaning back on the door, at ease.

“Impatient much?”

“Sure, keep your secrets,” taunts Cara.

Rubbing herself on his thigh in one long, sinuous movement, she adds, “I can work with that, if you want, but it’s gonna get uncomfortable for you pretty quick.”

She drums her fingers on his codpiece, smile wicked, and this time the Mandalorian laughs outright, appreciative.

“I enjoy fire in a partner,” he comments, pushing her away so he can lean down and get started on his boots.

“No time,” she insists, “just get to the essential.”

“Aye, sir,” answers the Mandalorian, a smile in his voice as he straightens up.

 _Maker, the bulk on that guy_ , she thinks, watching him remove the armor on his torso and hips. She slips out of all of her clothing and armor herself, a quicker process. Again, not something she usually goes for, but she is finding the contrast in states of dress an arousing perspective. Part of the thrill is putting herself in a dangerous situation: in this like in other aspects of her life, she takes pleasure in her own recklessness.

She stops him as he starts on his thigh plates.

“I was not joking about working with that, if you don’t mind.”

The blue helmet rises to meet her eyes, and the Mandalorian tilts his head.

“Interesting,” he comments, visor dipping as his gaze travels down, then back up her naked body.

Cara bits out, “Just say you mind and let’s move on.”

She is stepping forward to help the process along when a still-gloved hand on her hip halts her. The Mandalorian leans forward until his helmet is alongside her head.

“I do not mind,” he says, his voice low and intimate even through the vocoder.

She relaxes her stance and, reading the invitation correctly, Paz draws her forward until her chest and belly come into contact with his clothed torso. He then moves a thigh between her legs and a shiver runs down Cara’s body, which she blames on the coolness of his armor. Tilting her hips so that she can ride his offered thigh to her convenience, Cara braces one hand on his pauldron and uses the other to ruck up his shirt, tugging it out of his pants in the process. His skin is warm, mostly hairless, and surprisingly unscathed. When she comments on the lack of scarring, trailing fingers over a compact gut sculpted by necessity rather than vanity, he shrugs and says that most of his injuries end up being internal, what with the amount of armor he wears.

“You should see Din, the guy seems to always get hit where his armor doesn’t cover.”

Cara has no desire to imagine Din naked, and so she distracts herself with exploring further down. Her hand dips under the band of his undone trousers, and she pulls his cock out. He is proportional, well, everywhere, and that might be a bit of a problem. She hasn’t done anything penetrative beyond fingers in a while. She must be staring for a moment too long, because Paz remarks, “We don’t have to sheath the blade.”

The look she throws him gets misinterpreted and he adds, “What I meant to convey is that there is plenty we can do that does not involve me taking you.”

“Oh, I got what you meant. Is that one of those weapon-based Mando expressions?”

He nods and she continues, “We can work up to it next time.”

“I do enjoy having something to look forward to on long trips.”

His tone is both teasing and sincere, and Cara smiles despite herself. Stepping back, she drags the Mandalorian by the pauldron she is still holding, pushing him on the bed. The man obediently sits, and Cara looks him over, a sight in navy cloth and chipped blue beskar and durasteel.

“Now, where were we,” she muses before straddling one of the warrior’s large thighs.

Holding on to his pauldrons, Cara squirms until she finds the right position. The cuisse conveniently has ridges that, while utterly uncomfortable to sit on, are perfect to rub against. By the time she has a good rhythm going and pays the man under the plating attention, he is breathing heavily, his attention rapt, visor focused on the space their bodies meet. His hips are twitching minutely as the knee she has planted between his legs grazes his crotch with each undulation of her pelvis. His gloved hands are tightly gripping the bedding on each side of his legs, and she lowers her head to his audio intake to murmur, “You can touch, you know.”

The man groans enthusiastically, embracing her a moment as he pulls off his gloves. Cara almost regrets not feeling them on her skin, but the warm, calloused skin of the Mandalorian’s large hands are lovely as well as he starts roaming over her back, alternating between lightly scratching fingers and broad palms. Spurred into arching her back by the sensation, she has to quickly rearrange her folds so as to catch the edges of his cuisse properly again. Moaning as the arousal flares anew in her body, she uses her now wet fingers to ease the way along her partner’s neglected cock, which jumps under her sudden interest.

“Oh, Man... da, go... go on,” encourages the man.

Cara obliges, goading him, “Losing your words already?”

After adding more of her own wetness to his shaft, she resumes her wanking and rubbing both, syncing them in a rhythm that should leave him no time for repartee. She has miscalculated, she realizes, when after a second only, the deep voice within the helmet, strained with pleasure yet clear, declares:

_“Lovely one,_   
_your breasts are like two loaves made_   
_of grainy earth and golden moon,_   
_lovely one.”_

Cara is so surprised, she stutters to a stop. Sensing the turning of the tide, Paz easily picks her up and settles her across his lap, nestling his sex between her labia. When she regains countenance, smiling and shaking her head, she resumes moving, now frotting herself over him. Falling backwards, Paz lies on the bed, fingers moving to the head of her clitoris. As they work together to please each other, his voice rises from under the armor, intimate in a way Cara rarely partakes in:

_“Lovely one,_   
_there is nothing like your hips,_   
_perhaps earth has_   
_in some hidden place_   
_the curve and the fragrance of your body,_   
_perhaps in some place,_   
_lovely one.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem is ["Lovely One"](https://allpoetry.com/Lovely-One) by Pablo Neruda.


	21. Din Djarin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note for early subscribers who read the full story already: while the text is being edited for coherence and polishing, there is no fundamentally new content in those updated chapters I will be posting.  
> To the recent arrivals: welcome! This story is finished, don't hesitate to subscribe to receive notifications when the fic updates, once to twice a week.

They were only halfway through the trip and Din was definitely planning that detour for gas now. No way he was not airing this ship for another five days. Air recycling only did so much. Granted, there was not a lot to do onboard while in transit, but the amount of sex Cara and Paz had been having was mind-boggling. The four of them would be playing sabacc or cleaning up after dinner, then an innuendo would be thrown, and the next thing Din knew, the guest cabin’s door would slam shut. Jul would grab the child and seek refuge elsewhere, and Din would be left to roll his eyes to himself as he straightened up the dinner table or packed up the game. During the day, Cara and Paz could also be found canoodling in the hold, under the pretense of sparring. The previous day, Din had even surprised them in a truly horrifying contest of who could clean a gun in the most suggestive manner. The bounty hunter would never look at his Amban rifle the same way again.

Night after night, Cara and Paz would take over the guest cabin, and despite Din’s repeated offers to alternate who got the only other bed, Jul had been sleeping in the cockpit with a restless kid bouncing off the walls. Din could see her mood turning darker as the days passed and the bags under her eyes grew. It came to a head one evening after Paz and Cara had made the hold unpracticable most of the afternoon with their “sparring”. The crew had gotten into the habit of Cara, Jul, and Peapod dining around the small fold-out table while Din and Paz nibbled. The Mandalorians would then take more food to private spaces. But that evening, Cara had barely finished her dinner when she suggested “retiring for the night”. Paz was already halfway to the cabin door when Jul slammed her cup on the table so hard water spilled everywhere. 

“No,” she said. 

“What…” started Cara.

“No,” Jul repeated, “tonight, you will wash the dishes, put them away, and prepare tomorrow’s breakfast.” 

Cara got up, her posture aggressive, looking down on Jul, and the tension went immediately electric. Beyond Cara’s posturing, there was a weight in the air, a look on Jul’s face Din did not care for. Paz made to step forward, but Din held him back. They would be wise to observe before getting involved. Jul slowly got up, shifting the kid from her lap to her hip, and she repeated:

“You have been neglecting your share of the chores. Tonight, you will wash the dishes, put them away, and prepare tomorrow’s breakfast.” 

Jul’s voice had beskar to it, inflexible, and Cara, so incredulous she looked dazed, started repeating, “I will wash the dishes, put them away, and… what… what the fuck, Jul?” 

Cara was frowning now, and Jul looked startled, then guilty, then horrified. She suddenly darted to Din, handing him Peapod like the child was a hot potato, and ran to the ladderwell. 

“I’ve got to reorganize the pantry! Don’t bother me,” she yelled as she disappeared down into the hold. 

A moment passed, Din petting Peapod’s fuzzy head to calm his fussing. Eventually, Cara, turning to the Mandalorians, asked, “What the kriff is going on with her?”

Din sighed, “Where to start. Maybe it’s the fact you’ve kicked her out of her cabin, and that she’s been sleeping in the cockpit. Except the kid, of course, can sense you’re awake and having fun without him, so he’s been awake more than not, and Jul along with him.”

Cara glanced at Paz, and she looked vaguely guilty, but protested still, “You guys didn’t say anything!”

Din shrugged.

“I thought it was a flight of fancy and that in a few rotations you’d be back to the agreed upon routine.” Pointing to Paz, Din explained, “I’ve never known you to sleep with the same woman more than three times.” Now pointing at Cara, he added, “And I’ve never known you to sleep with anybody for more than a night.”

Cara never knew when to quit, a quality that made her a great fighter, but not always a great friend. Huffing, she grumbled, “You’re just both sour because you’re not getting any!”

 _Time to make a point_ , thought Din. While he thought himself an even-tempered man, Din had learned drama from the best, and wasn’t above using that weapon when called upon. Adjusting the child in his arm, Din said, “How king of you to turn the knife in the wound, Cara Dune. Maybe if you had not been monopolizing my lover of two decades, I’d be a little less tense. Maybe if you had not kicked your cousin out of her own room, she would have time for self-care.”

Cara looked like she’d been hit on the head, her gaze fleeting from one Mandalorian to the other. Turning to a suspiciously silent Paz, Din handed him the child.

“Find us when you’re ready to apologize. Or just yell for us, it’s a small ship, sound travels really well.”


	22. Din Djarin

Din was reading in his cabin, enjoying the peace and quiet, when a knock came on the door. At his invitation to come in, Paz squeezed himself in the tight space, the curving walls tall enough for him to stand only by the door.

“I wanted to apologize.”

Din put his datapad aside, sitting up to face the door. He had been harsh, earlier, annoyed and worried about Jul. A smile in his voice, he reassured Paz, “While not sensitive to it, I understand Cara’s allure. You are usually more thoughtful than this, though.”

“We honestly thought Jul and you were sharing your cabin.”

Din shook his head, “We don’t have that kind of relationship.”

“Are you sure? She is smitten with you, of that I am certain.”

Din rolled his eyes. Din may have been the romance literature fan, but Paz was the one who saw love everywhere. Jul had a crush, at best, it would end when she realized he was just a normal guy under the beskar. 

Changing the subject, Din mused, “I thought you were trying to get back at me.”

Din knew Paz’s tells, and the way he stiffened, almost imperceptibly, was admission enough. The bounty hunter felt a twang of shame and continued, “Paz… While your anger at my involvement with the Covert’s demise is justified, I was hoping you’d give me the honor of an open confrontation about it. Petty revenges are unlike you.”

Paz lurched forward, forced to kneel in front of Din when the ceiling sloped too low. 

“Din, no... The child needed protection. No one but the Empire is to blame for our losses. This is the Way.”

Despite the tightness of his throat, Din repeated the words. They were silent for a moment, grieving. Soothed by Paz’s proximity and the hum of his ship, Din confessed, looking at his feet, “This is the Way, and yet, I find the weight of all those deaths resting heavy on my conscience.” 

“What do you mean, all these deaths? We lost none to the bounty hunters, and two to the Empire.”

Din’s head snapped up, and he wished he could see Paz’s face, read his expression.

“But… I saw the empty helmets, the Armorer harvesting the beskar.”

Exclaiming in understanding, Paz explained, “I suspect the Armorer had no time to tell you, or was afraid you might be captured and made to talk. The pile of armors, that was theater for the Imperials’ sake. We all gave up one piece of armor, and wore cloaks to disguise the rest.”

“But… The helmets…” 

“They weren’t happy about it, but the teens who haven’t sworn the creed yet provided most of these. Others were family heirlooms with no current wearers. I’m sure that they are all back to their owners by now.” 

Slowly, joy bloomed in Din’s chest and another weight he had been carrying started to lift. His thoughts circled back to the seed of their conversation, to the apology Paz had still not actually voiced.

“Paz,” he asked, “why have you been avoiding me in so obnoxious a way, then?”

Paz sighed, “I was bitter, you were right, but not about the Covert’s relocation. I’m still struggling to understand how you knowingly took a job from an Imperial.”

Paz’s adherence to the Creed, and to what he believed to be right, was beskar-clad. It had been a source of conflict between them before, but it was also one of the reasons Din loved and admired him. 

“It was a lot of beskar, Paz,” Din started, “and I did not know the target to be a child. Besides, as _beroya_ , my duty is to the survival of the Covert first. Vengeance is a luxury.”

After a moment of consideration, Paz shifted, bringing his hands to Din’s knees, “I’ve missed you, Din, and the perspective you bring. I am sorry I’ve been avoiding this talk.” 

This was the other reason Din loved Paz, Din reflected, a smile hidden under the helmet: Paz may be unwilling to compromise, but he was not unwilling to change his mind. 

“Are we ok, then?” asked the bounty hunter. 

The other man squeezed his thighs. Voice teasing, he answered, “We are, unless you really are mad at me for having failed to fulfill your Vizsla needs.”

Din would have liked to deflate Paz’s ego, but being subjected to overhearing Paz in the throes of pleasure with somebody else had been lonely. It also had not been a first though, and Din answered as honestly as he could bring himself to.

“The novelty will fade, and eventually she’ll move on, or you will.” Din gestured between them and added, “Meanwhile, this, us, we remain unchanged. That’s what matters.”

Paz considered him in silence. He ran a hand up to Din’s nape. Voice low, he asked, “Is it strange, this relationship of ours?”

Aware the mood was getting a bit heavy, Din joked, “I’ve seen weirder. Neither of us is walking the other on a leash, for one.”

Paz chuffed but remained silent, and Din added, now a bit worried, “As long as it works, is it not worth it?”

Paz brought their helmets together and, almost too low for Din to hear, murmured, “Would you turn off the light?”

Din did so, and Paz wasted no time in removing both their helmets. They kissed, and it was like coming home. Stubble did not matter, neither did unbrushed hair. Paz ran a hair through Din’s curls and brought their foreheads together, skin against skin this time. Din felt Paz smile against his lips before his lover whispered, “At times, I forget how much the lack of you is like a missing weapon or limb. Then we are together again, and I am reminded that you are, like my armor or my heart, another piece of me.”


	23. Cara Dune

Cara admits, at least to herself, that she wasn’t the nicest crewmate about this whole Paz thing. But she doesn’t understand why, despite rebalancing sleeping arrangements and chores to a chart agreed upon by all crew members, there is still a tension in the air. Din isn’t the resentful kind: his and Cara’s relationship goes back to their easy camaraderie after a bit of teasing on Din’s part, which the shock trooper returns tenfold, bragging about stealing Paz from him. Cara and Paz still enjoy each other’s company, but are careful to keep the noise to a minimum and the activity to a decent hour. And so quickly it becomes clear that it is the resident cook who has not recovered from the fight. Jul is quieter. She would usually be heard at all times, chatting with the Child as he supervises her cooking, or the two of them babbling as they train. 

At first, she thinks her cousin’s silence is a sign of her continued anger, but Elle always was petty when angry, the kind to get back at you with overseasoned food or critters in your bed. While she does not know Jul as an adult, when no retaliation happens, Cara wonders. Then Jul prepares each crewmember’s favorite food, a sure sign she feels guilty for something. Cara would wager she’s guilty for the way she weighed on Cara’s mind, when they fought, but Cara threw off the influence easily enough. What has her in a twist still? 

For Paz, Jul makes a casserole so spicy Cara is crying halfway through her bowl, and even Din takes to his room a generous helping of yogurt to tame the heat. For Peapod, she sacrifices the last live frog on the ship and lets him chase it around the ship and eat it whole. For Din, she makes thin dough rounds she calls _galettes_ out of a dark flour with a nutty taste. She stuffs them with stir-fried greens, eggs, and small pieces of lard. The result is quite tasty. When Din asks after her source for the recipe, the two of them end up spending a quiet afternoon reading through a datapad together. Paz rejoices about it, implying he hopes they will take their relationship further, and Cara realizes she does not understand Din and Paz’s brand of love in the least. 

When it’s down to making Cara’s favorite food, Jul cooks a whole spread. She has Din and Paz take their plates to the bedrooms, and the both of them dine together. After a cold salad of fresh fruits, she prepares handmade pasta with roasted fish slathered in a creamy sauce, something Cara’s father made when guests visited. The dish has them talking about those they have lost. The conversation is heavy, and freeing at the same time. They reminisce about the quirks and adventures of their cousins and siblings, and the tears they shed are from grief and laughter both. By the time Paz and Din emerge from the bedrooms, Cara feels lighter, and they enjoy coffee together, with shuura fruit cake drizzled in chocolate sauce.

The following day the mood is much more relaxed. When the Razor Crest lands on Lantilles, the last of the awkwardness lifts as they plan for the day’s stop. The moon itself is nothing extraordinary, more of a rocky heap covered in shipyards taking advantage of the minerals mined in the planet below. Everybody immediately scatters for a few hours of freedom, Din, Jul, and Peapod to the market while Cara and Paz are in charge of fuel and repairs. The abundance of parts and ready availability of fuel allow them to save a good number of credits, which Cara immediately spends on an upgrade she and Din have been talking about: a real oven. A chunk of the guest cabin’s storage gets sacrificed in the process, but Cara doubts Jul will mind as neither of them possess more than a week’s worth of clothing. The kid’s toys do get squeezed into a smaller bin, but some of them are chewed through and need discarding anyway. 


	24. Paz Vizsla

After clearing the air with Din, I feel much better about the whole thing, and I’m glad to see him elect to follow Jul to the market, though he pretends it’s purely for safety purposes. Truth is, I am a bit jealous of their bond, but it’s like Din said: other lovers come and go, and we stay. As for being on fuel and repair duty with the shock trooper, it’s not like I mind spending more time with her. I don’t mind spending some time spoiling the old Crest either, which really needs some love. Din must have been running ragged, he usually takes better care of the dear heap of junk. Cara and I, beyond agreeing on being a little nicer to Jul and Din, don’t discuss the situation. She’s not really the sharing kind, beyond what she likes in the bedroom. She must feel a bit guilty though because, as time rolls on and the rest of the group stays gone, she bullies me into helping her clean the ship. Thankfully, before we can move on to the hold, which is frankly grimy, I’m relieved to hear the lovebirds coming back.

“You’re sure I can’t help carry anything?” asks Din, and Jul’s voice, cheerful in a way that has been missed dearly, answers, “Nah, you’ve got Peapod, that’s the most precious cargo of all. Right, cutie?”

A coo answers her, and the three of them come into view, Jul leading the way with some packages and Din following, the child slung across his chest in the colorful scarf Jul usually uses. He is adorable like that, gleaming silver beskar and dad scarf ruining the mystique. My heart might be fluttering. Who am I kidding, of course it is, I’ve been sweet on this guy since we were teenagers.

Jul’s smile fades a bit when she realizes they have a welcome committee, but does not disappear entirely. Instead, she drops a couple packages by the pantry storage in the hold, then hands Cara and me a parcel each before leading the way up the ladder and into the galley. She is already unpacking a couple of things when she notices the oven.

“Wait… is that… Are you serious?”

I put what looks like a big bag of flour down and step back.

“That was all Cara,” I explain before going to stand next to Din, out of the way.

Jul is opening the oven and inspecting the inside.

“Oh, wow, you sprung for gas instead of electric! Din, did you know about this? It’s lovely, but are you sure it’s a good use of credits?”

“That was Cara’s idea,” says Din, “and I approved of it.”

Jul finally turns to Cara, who is standing there looking a bit uncomfortable.

“I haven’t eaten so well since we were back on Alderaan,” admits the shock trooper.

Jul smiles, her gaze lowered to the ground, “Your dad was such a good cook. He’s the reason I’m one too, you know.”

Cara sighs, wistful, crossing her arms.

“I know,” she admits, “he loved teaching you. I wish… I wish I had paid more attention.”

“Oh, Cara…”

Closing the oven door, Jul crosses the space in a couple of steps, hugging Cara. After a frozen second, the shock trooper’s arms loosen and she returns the embrace. The scene is touching, but when they separate after a moment, both look a bit awkward.

“I believe this call for a celebration, does it not?” I prompt.

Din immediately picks up on my nudge and declares, “Vendors at the market said sunsets from the top of Snikalo Mesa are great. Everybody ok with spending the night ship-camping?”

Both women agree, and it’s a matter of minutes to secure the ship and hop on over to the top of the nearby plateau. I volunteer to help Jul in the galley, the way we have grown comfortable doing at the Healing Cup. She is in good spirits, chatting as we work, preparing a feast. She has me knead a dough while she marinates blurg meat in a lemon and paprika sauce. Peppers are put to roast in the brand new oven, warming it up slowly for the bread later. Soon, all we have to do is wait for the bread to rise, and we join Cara and Din in the hold, where they are finishing up the cleaning, with the moderately helpful input of a naked Peapod.

“He jumped in the water bucket,” explains Din with a shrug, and indeed, drying in the sun outside are little brown robes, weighted down with a rock.

“Please tell me it was the clean water bucket?” pleads Jul with a laugh.

“I’m pretty sure it was?”

I’ll admit that Din’s tone is far from reassuring, and Jul justly recommends that the poor child get an actual bath, just in case. Din is tasked with the job while Cara, Jul, and myself move on to building a fire pit outside. Like on every other barely habitable rocky heap, we are expecting the night to get chilly. An hour later, Jul disappears back into the ship, followed by Cara, and Din and I play with the child. We wrestle for the ball in a classic game of Run the Line where the player in control of the ball must run it, you guessed it, past a line to win. Once Peapod understands the game though, he starts winning with a suspicious regularity. It takes Din and I an embarrassingly long time to realize that he’s using his powers to steal the ball from our grasp, then to push us away when we try to block his way. With a cry of outrage, Din takes advantage of his nakedness to tickle the kid, sending him feet over head with a squeal of laughter. We then switch the game to chasing him while he runs away, giggling all the while.

It’s one thing to know the green terror has mystical energy under his control. It’s another to see the ball float behind the small alien, following him around as he plays with us.

When dusk approaches, Din and I take turns in the fresher while Jul puts the last touches to the meal. When we come back out of the Crest, Cara is setting the food on a crate she dragged out. Jul is rinsing a dusty, wriggly child again before dressing him back up in a now dry robe. Din brings down some cushions and the five of us settle around the crate for dinner. The thinly sliced, marinated bantha meat has been pan-seared, and the result is delicious, crispy, tangy with a hint of heat. There’s a dark red paste Jul says is roasted pepper, and a black olive tapenade as a second spread option. Other bowls contain leafy greens, fragrant cheese, and pickled meiloorun. The bread sits front and center, still crackling from the oven, the crust golden where it cracked and otherwise dusted with flour. Steam rises from the springy, pale flesh underneath when Din slices the loaf with his vibroblade.

Despite the blade buzzing still, Cara daringly snags the first slice and starts to top it with the bowls’ contents. I observe as the pile gets progressively higher and more precarious, wondering how she is going to eat that monstrosity. However, as the toppings look ready to spill, she grabs another bread slice and slaps it on top of the whole thing. Using both hands, she smooshes the bread slices together at the sides, keeping the loose foodstuff inside from spilling. With no hesitation, she bites into her creation. A couple of chews in, mouth still full, she exclaims, “Hmm, Elle, this is good.”

Jul, just done making her own bread trap, thanks her and digs in. Din is done cutting the bread by now, and we prepare mini versions, little bits of bread with one or two toppings only, small enough to fit under the helmet. It is moments like these that I wish my Creed was a bit more flexible, or that Din would declare us all clan. We have not discussed our agreement that following the Way means only clan members will ever see our faces recently, not since the last time he declined to marry me.

Peapod is the one who brings me out of my melancholy musings, cooing softly.

“Oh, look!”

Following the child’s gaze, Jul is pointing at the horizon. The sun is about to set, the clear sky ablaze with pinks, oranges, and reds. Abandoning the meal for a moment, we gather at the edge of the plateau. The elevation offers us a fantastic viewpoint: the town and factories below are nestled within the immense, rocky landscape.

“Thanks for bringing us here, Din.”

Jul’s voice is quiet with reverence, and Din stays silent altogether, electing to squeeze her shoulder instead. I’m feeling a bit choked up myself, from the natural beauty and the camaraderie both. We go back to our food and a comfortable conversation gets going, voices low still, retracing the day and talking about foods from across the galaxy we’ve tasted.

Once we’ve all had our fill, Jul gets to sit by the fire with a drowsy Peapod while the rest of us pack away dinner. We then all sit by the fire, the heat welcome now that night has settled and the air is cooling. With the planet hidden on the other side of the moon, the sky is pinpricked with stars. Din, ever ready, pulls up a hologram of the star chart from this moon’s perspective and we take turns locating in the sky above us systems we have visited. Conversation ebbs and flows, the fire crackling, the child snoring on Jul’s lap. The comfort brings to mind similar nights in the Covert’s _karyai_ , when generations gather and, as the hour grows late and the children sleepy, poetry is declaimed. When silence has settled for a while, and Din has turned the starchart off, I let the words flow from my tongue.

_“When I heard the learn’d astronomer,_  
_When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me,_  
_When I was shown the charts and diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them,_  
_When I sitting heard the astronomer where he lectured with much applause in the lecture-room,_  
_How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick,_  
_Till rising and gliding out I wander’d off by myself,_  
_In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,_  
_Look’d up in perfect silence at the stars.”_

Din sighs, the content one I enjoy hearing so much, and lies down with a clank of armor, eyes on the stars. Cara places a new log in the fire before lying down as well. I’m gathering stanzas in my memory, when Jul’s voice rises, hesitant.

_“From this hour I ordain myself loos’d of limits and imaginary lines,_  
_Going where I list, my own master total and absolute.”_

Surprised, I gasp, the words I had gathered escaping me. The style is familiar, and I’m about to ask how she knows of our poets when Cara, of all people, picks up the thread of the poem.

_“Listening to others, considering well what they say,_  
_Pausing, searching, receiving, contemplating,”_

Din is sitting up, likely as incredulous as I, as Jul continues, more confident.

_“Gently, but with undeniable will, divesting myself of the holds that would hold me._  
_I inhale great draughts of space,_  
_The east and the west are mine, and the north and the south are mine.”_

Together, the cousins intone:

_“I am larger, better than I thought,_  
_I did not know I held so much goodness.”_

There’s a pause, and finally I am about to ask, when suddenly Cara sits up and, pointing at Jul, declames, her sudden vehemence making me recoil.

_“Allons! through struggles and wars!_  
_The goal that was named cannot be countermanded._  
_My call is the call of battle, I nourish active rebellion,_  
_He going with me must go well arm’d,_  
_He going with me goes often with spare diet, poverty, angry enemies, desertions.”_

It is an argument now, the shock trooper’s voice ringing in the night air. Din and I glance at each other, but I dare not speak, and before long Jul answers.

_“Allons! the road is before us!_  
_It is safe—I have tried it—my own feet have tried it well—be not detain’d!”_

Her voice is passionate, and she finds her stride, getting up to embrace the night.

_“Camerado, I give you my hand!_  
_I give you my love more precious than money,_  
_I give you myself before preaching or law;_  
_Will you give me yourself? will you come travel with me?_  
_Shall we stick by each other as long as we live?”_

Cara falls backward on the hard ground, a soldier fatally hit on the battlefield. Groaning, she admits, “You always were better at these than I.”

Jul’s laugh breaks the rest of the tension.

“I think it’s because, despite your better memory, I was the one who picked up on the mood of the room.”

Car sits up again, indignant, “You cheated with the Force?!”

Jul shrugs and says, “Is it cheating when you don’t know you’re doing it?”

“Point,” concedes Cara.

Finally, the question bursts out of me, “You know Mandalorian poets?!”

The cousins turn to me, and Cara explains, “Mandalorian, Corellian, even some Hutt poets… We studied them all, in school.”

“Plus, our family was big on oratory skill,” adds Jul, “there were monthly contests.”

“Jul always entered with some mawkish sonnet,” Cara teases.

Jul counters, “You only cared for boring epics.”

I can’t help laughing, “And so Whitman was your compromise?!”

They both nodded, and I laughed again, astonished.

“Din, did you know _aruetiise_ (foreigners) read our poetry?”

Poor Din, whom I know favors prose over verse, blithely answers, “From now on, I shall endeavor to ask my bounties if they know any Mandalorian poetry before I put them in carbonite.”

I thump him on the shoulder and he flops back down on the ground with a clang.

“If they can recite all of the _Dha Werda Verda_ , do I let them go?” he muses.

Barking a laugh, I get up and stretch.

“For such a feat, you should. Cara, would you care to walk with me back to the ship?”

All this poetry has put me in the mood to enjoy the time she and I have together, as I know it to be fleeting. I also have a feeling that Jul and Din need a gentle push, and what better encouragement for romance than the infinity of a starry night, huddling for warmth by the embers of a fire?

Cara accepts my invitation, throwing in a recommendation for the others to not come back to the ship for a while, and Din grumbles his assent in the shape of a jab about our lack of discretion. Surprisingly, Jul is the one to call him on it.

“Let them be, Din, _carpe diem_.”

“Karpe dee yem?” he repeats, and I can’t help knuckling his helmet like we do the inattentive _ade_ (children) at the Covert.

“Have you paid no mind to your lessons? It’s a Core World concept, to seize the day.”

Leaning down, I add for his audial only, “We’re not getting younger, _vod_ (brother-in-arms). Not so many sunsets left to share with a lovely woman by your side.”

Din throws a not-so-subtle glance over at Jul. Resisting the urge to crow, I lock arms with Cara, and as we walk away, I recite to her:

_“My candle burns at both ends;_  
_It will not last the night;_  
_But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends—_  
_It gives a lovely light!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Paz's first poem is "When I Heard the Learn’d Astronomer" by Walt Whitman, the one he closes the chapter with is "First Fig" by Edna St. Vincent Millay. The lines Jul and Cara throw back and forth are taken from "Song of the Open Road" by Walt Whitman.


	25. Din Djarin

When Din opened his eyes in the morning, his first thought was for the late night stargazing with Jul. With a contented sigh, he stretched in his bed, and startled when he bumped into a warm body. His second thought was for Paz, who had been waiting for him, awake and helmeted, to come in the night before. With the both of them sealed in the dark cabin, they had dropped all armor, and bedded down. Snuggled in the darkness, feeling like the teenager he had not been in a long time, Din had teased Paz about his continued interest in Cara, and had been teased right back about his crush on Jul. 

It must be morning, reflected Din, pushing Paz a bit more firmly so he could wriggle out of bed. Din was hoping to grant his _vod_ more sleep, but he bumped into some piece or other of armor, and the subsequent clatter awoke Paz. Finding their helmets, they slipped those on first, and got out, skipping gearing up as they would be in hyperspace soon anyway. 

The living quarters were devoid of life, the second cabin’s open door showing only messy sleeping bags and pillows. A quick glance into the cockpit showed it was empty as well. Following the muffled sound of conversation, Din climbed down the ladder into the hold. The starboard door was open, and right outside Cara and Jul were supervising Peapod as the kid ran after his ball. Between sips of tea, Jul would extend a hand, frown, and push the ball further. Under the kid’s tutelage, her Force powers were diversifying daily. Cara had her own cup of caf, which she raised in salute as the Mandalorians stepped outside and joined them. 

“Another sunny day on Lantilles,” joked Cara, knowing full well the limited biosphere did not include a weather system. 

Jul turned to them, and her smile, in the full light of day, was glorious. 

“Hi, Paz. Morning, Din.” 

Din smiled in return, remembered she couldn’t tell, and waved awkwardly instead. Jul waived back, laughing, and explained:

“We thought we’d stretch our legs and tire Peapod before the last stretch.” 

Hearing his name, and having taken advantage of Jul’s distraction to catch the ball, Peapod waddled back to the group. 

“A sound idea,” commented Paz, “I would not mind a bout of outdoor sparring before departure, if the schedule allows.” 

Distracted by his foundling asking to be picked up, Din grumbled:

“As long as it’s not the kind of sparring you engage in with Cara.”

“Do you realize you just volunteered yourself?” mocked Paz.

Din cuddled Peapod closer, taking advantage of the lack of armor. 

“Must I?” he pleaded. 

“Are you scared, Din Djarin? You’ve put on some weight, let’s see if you know how to use it.”

His child secure with one arm, Din self-consciously rubbed his tummy with the other. A few weeks of delicious food had indeed done their work. Hopefully he would not have lost speed, as quick reflexes were the only way to beat Paz in hand-to-hand.

“It looks lovely on you, by the way” added Paz, “It was time you put some meat on those bones.”

The man was practically bouncing on the ball of his feet, and Din really wanted to avoid a repeat of the previous Cara/Paz sparring bouts once in hyperspace. Sitting Peapod on the edge of the open ship door, Din stretched, cracked his knuckles, and went to Paz. The ground was bare rock, and Din resolved to avoid taking the session to a ground wrestle. His knees did not take to this kind of abuse kindly anymore. 

Sparring with Paz was more of a dance than an actual fight. They knew each other so well, every dodge and every feint, that they did it more for the exercise than for a true practice of their skills as warriors. While they turned around each other, throwing the occasional punch or kick, Din kept an eye on the kid and the women. Cara had finished her caf and was needling Jul about something. The cook was rolling her eyes, but eventually said something that had Cara pump the air with a victorious fist.

Paz knocked Din’s breath out with a fist to the solar plexus. 

“Eyes on me, _vod_.”

The pain and remontrance brought Din’s attention back on his sparring partner and he lost himself to the familiar rhythm for a while, breath, limbs, sight, brain, all in sync. He was actually getting some good hits in when raised voices caught both Mandalorians’ attention. Making their way back towards the cousins, they came in range to start distinguishing their words. 

“…just admitted you… why not…” 

That was Cara, annoyed, shaking her hands. 

“Goddess! Why don’t you…” answered Jul, “…own business… Paz.” 

The Mandalorians were getting close enough to fully hear the fight, and they slowed their approach, trying to give the cousins the time to table the argument. The women were too focused on each other, however, and Cara’s next words reached them with perfect clarity. 

“Oh, shut up will you! I’ll mind my business when you don’t act like a dumbass and ruin it for everybody, including your own kriffing stubborn ass.” 

“Watch your mouth, Carasynthia Dune,” threatened Jul.

“You sound like my mother, Elle.”

“At least she tried to raise you well. Not her fault you went awry.”

Jul immediately slapped a hand on her mouth, aware of having gone too far, but it was too late. With a wordless cry of rage, Cara raised a hand to slap her cousin. Din’s gut clenched: Cara was an accomplished fighter, Jul didn’t stand a chance. He shouted Cara’s name, breaking into a run, but it was too late. And yet, right before flesh met flesh, Jul seemed to melt out of the way.

“Goddess, I’m sorry, Tia!”

But like all accomplished brawlers, Cara was hard to stop when she started, and she was already following her first missed hit with a punch from her other hand. 

Jul dodged it as well. 

“I guess we’re doing this, then,” she sighed. 

Din stopped moving forward, and Paz halted next to him. For the next few minutes they stood side by side a few paces away, flabbergasted, watching as Cara tired herself attacking an enemy who always seemed to know exactly where she was headed, and evaded her every time.

Cara, panting, paused her assault, “It’s... unfair... you’re... reading my thoughts.”

“That, and your body itself,” confirmed Jul.

Shaking her head, Cara took a sparring position again, and attacked, her movements erratic, aiming for the unpredictable. Whatever Cara was trying, it was partially working. Jul was slower to avoid her attacks, and after a few close calls she started blocking when she couldn’t step out of the way.

“You’re really making me reconsider the whole non-violent thing, you know,” Jul sighed as Cara, breaking through her defenses, poked her in the side.

“Come on, you were good when we were kids, better than me. I never understood why you gave it up.”

“Tia...”

Jul had stopped moving altogether, and Cara almost punched her in the face, managing only barely to deflect her own hit into a shoulder shove.

“What? Did I hurt you?”

“No... but...”

She glanced at Din and Paz then, and Cara followed her gaze.

“Want to take a walk?” Cara offered.

Jul shook her head.

“You should all know.”

She walked slowly towards the two armored men, followed by Cara. They stood there in silence for a moment, before she started, “The Force... has no morality. I am no expert, but I learned that people like me tend to go one of two ways. Good, or bad.”

She met their gazes, solemn, and continued, “After Alderaan, I grieved. And then I got angry. I took the high ground with Cara, but deep down I wanted the same thing she did: vengeance. When I became a medic, and got on the battlefield, I... my power... got out of hand. Death, everywhere. And the anger... the anger was powerful, and it resonated with the Force. I did... something I can’t come back from.” 

Jul paused there, her eyes on the ground, her hands fidgeting. Din looked to Paz, but the man was focused on Jul, who breathed deeply a few times before she spoke again, raising her eyes but staring in the distance.

“You three are used to causing death, but you don’t know it like I do. When Alderan died, I felt it. I felt millions of lives, snuffed in an instant. What it left behind, that gaping darkness of non-life... that’s how the battlefield felt, and that’s how it felt when I ordered a stormtrooper to crash his transport. They all died, and… I felt it.”

Jul’s gaze refocused on the group as she rang a knuckle on each of their chest plates, “They are people, in the end, under the armor. Just as you are. Just as we all are.”

She had betrayed her promise to herself, and it hurt, Din could understand that. But she was a good person, at the root, and it seemed like the only obstacle in putting that one mistake behind her was to forgive herself. 

Before he could voice that thought, however, she added, “But the worst part... It was the satisfaction. The pleasure. Cold, and beautiful, and utterly frightening. I felt rightful, I delighted in the wrongness of it, in how the Force had bent to my will.”

Cara opened her mouth, but Jul put a hand up.

“Let me finish. Like people who quit spice, or drink, I quit killing. But like all addicts, temptation is a daily struggle, and abstinence the only solution. I nearly did not stop the first time. I don’t think I would come back, if I ever gave in to the urge again. It’s one thing to kill in self defense or during a war. It’s another to be a murderer.”

They all were silent a long while, until finally Paz said, “You talk of the Force as if it was so tangible a thing. Whatever it is, how can it have dominion over you, despite you being its wielder?”

“The Force isn’t a knife or a blaster, Paz. I can’t put it away when I’m done using it. It is... Hmm. It is like your code and your armor made one. A thing of the mind, the heart, and the body. But without any clear rules. All guesswork. It has intent of its own, that I believe, but what is that intent… Who knows.”

The analogy had helped Din, and he turned to the Crest, where his foundling was watching them from afar, curious but somehow unworried all through the fighting before. 

“And Peapod…” started asking Din, not knowing how to finish. 

“And that tiny green alien’s connection to the Force is twenty times more powerful than mine, maybe more. Our only saving grace is that he doesn’t have a full enough understanding of our brains yet to exert power on them. That, and he likes us.”

The four adults turned to the child and, sensing their attention on him, he waved. Remembering the incident with Cara, Din felt a shiver run down his back. It was high time he gathered better information about his foundling and his abilities. 

“Let’s go,” he said, “our next stop should bring us answers.”


	26. Din Djarin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who like to connect the dots, the Past Lover featured in this chapter is from [_One Night With A Mandalorian_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26490874)!

The last of the trip to Birren was thankfully quick, just a couple of days spent with much more camaraderie on board. Cara and Paz were not skimping on their chores for a roll in the sack anymore, and at night the Mandalorians shared a cabin and the cousins another. Once out of hyperspace, the planet came into view quickly, unchanged compared to all those years ago when Din had visited it on a hunt. The whole crew had gathered in the cockpit for a view on their destination.

“So, who are we visiting exactly?” asked Cara as they approached.

Din distractedly answered as he was entering the address he’d been sent, “Friend of mine called Yaj’vabil.”

Paz, who had ceded the seats to the ladies and was standing leaning in the doorframe, piped up, “The romance writer whose editor had put a hit on? The one you helped instead?”

Cursing the heavy infantry’s memory, Din grumbled, “The job was to abduct her. Technically, I completed it.”

Paz chuckled, but otherwise remained silent and, despite Jul’s curious gaze, Din elected to change the subject.

“We stayed in touch. Her partner is a historian, he might know more about the Jedi.”

Din transmitted his call sign to the tower, and promptly was approved to enter the atmosphere. From there, it only took a few minutes before Yaj’s house came into view. She had moved since the last time Din had seen her, leaving her quiet middle class neighborhood for a more private property outside of town, surrounded by gardens and woods. There was even a kidney-shaped lake within walking distance, a landmark she had described in her directions. A small landing pad, just big enough for the Razor Crest, was near the house. Din had sent a holo ahead and so the landing pad was clear, a small planetside shuttle parked to the side.

Once they landed, Din popped in his quarters, and came back out with his overnight bag slung over a shoulder.

“Everybody ready?” he asked, before sliding down the ladder into the hold.

“Din, where’s Peapod’s ball?” yelled Jul from the living quarters.

Din, who had almost fallen to his death stepping on it a couple of hours prior, shouted back, “It’s put away with his other toys.”

“Has anybody seen my right greave?”

It was Paz, this time, hollering from just above the ladderwell before joining Din in the hold. Cara answered by throwing it down the well. It rebounded off his helm, clanging, and Din caught it by reflex before it hit the ground. With a sigh, Din knelt and affixed it to Paz’s leg. It took another fifteen minutes, but eventually the whole crew was ready to go. They walked the short path to the house, the kid in Din’s arms as the absurd amount of stuff he might need took up all the space in the pram. The day’s heat was waning as the sun got lower on the horizon and the short walk was pleasant, a light breeze cooling them.

By the time they arrived at the house, a welcome committee was waiting on the porch, no doubt alerted to their arrival by the Crest’s engines. The house was an elegant mix of raw wood, durasteel, and plasteel, the perfect nature retreat for a writer. Yaj was waving at them, wearing a gauzy white dress that complimented her sunset skin perfectly, her lekku unbound. Next to her stood a skinny male Chiss, no doubt the partner she had mentioned in her correspondence.

Din came to a stop a few steps away, suddenly unsure of the procedure to follow.

“Hey, Yaj,” he said, lamely.

“Hey yourself, Mando. Or can I use your name?”

Glancing at Paz at his side, Din shrugged.

“You might as well, or it’s going to get complicated fast.”

Pointing to the various members of his crew, he added, “Here are Cara and Jul Dune, they’re cousins. The other Mandalorian is Paz Vizsla. And here’s the kid.”

With a brilliant smile, Jul came closer and greeted them, “The famous Paz Vizsla, hmm, delighted to meet you. Cara, Jul, I look forward to getting to know you.”

Finally, she stopped in front of Din and offered a finger to the kid, which he grasped. She shook lightly, exclaiming, “And look at this adorable wrinkly face, I’m already half in love.”

Din had quite forgotten the charm of those dark brown eyes and, feeling fond all of a sudden, blurted, “It’s good to see you, Yaj.”

Extracting her finger from the kids’ claws, Yaj briefly rested her forehead to Din’s forehelm before stepping back. Din felt himself redden under Paz’s knowing stare, and elected not to look at Jul or Cara at all. Unaware of the bounty hunter’s inner turmoil, Yaj waved the Chiss over and made the last of the introductions, “André, this is my husband, Din Djarin.”

A gasp of surprise emanated from behind Din, and he forced himself to ignore it and relax his hands. He heard Jul mutter something and Paz whispered loudly, “He fake married her to get her out of a forced marriage.”

Din sighed as Yaj winked to him before turning to the Chiss, finishing as if they had not been interrupted, “Din, this is my partner, André Ormikan.”

The Chiss smiled, debonair, and unbothered by Yaj’s antics.

“Oh, it’s quite an honor to meet you in person, Mr. Djarin!”

Din took the hand the man offered, and found his energetically shaken. Reflecting that he was getting used to being called by his name, Din offered, “Call me Din, please.”

“Ah, lovely, Din it is. I’ve so many questions! My period of expertise is the Clone Wars, you see, but I’ve always been fascinated by Mandalore and its colonies.”

Din, finally managing to regain possession of his hand, looked to Yaj. She bit her lip, amused.

“See, it was settled by Coruscant colons, and yet the culture that emerged is wholly unique and quite unrecognizable from…”

“André, honey,” gently interrupted Yaj, “how about letting our guests come into the house and unpack?”

“Yes, of course, my enthusiasm is getting ahead of me.”

The Chiss stepped back and invited the group to make their way inside the house. Accompanied by an uninterrupted flow of polite chatter, they stepped into a large space cozily furnished with rugs, fur throws, and pillows. The first floor was one room, with an extensive kitchen to one side, a dining-room space next to it, a sunken living-room in the middle, and finally a sunroom to the other side, overflowing with plants and open onto the gardens. The dug-in couch made the space open and light, offering through the floor-to-ceiling windows an unbroken view of the wilder, forest-like grounds and of the lake in the distance.

“The library, bedrooms, and showers are upstairs. There are towels folded on the beds that are free to be claimed. Take your time, we’ll have food ready for you when you come down. Make yourselves at home!”


	27. Cara Dune

By the time Cara heads back downstairs, having opted to take advantage of the running water to shower, Elle is helping the Chiss and Twi’lek in the kitchen. It’s just like her to ingratiate herself through food wherever she goes, and Cara is smiling fondly when she joins them. 

“Tia, perfect, you can tell me if this is ready.”

Taking the spoon her cousin is shoving at her, Cara warns their hosts, “Careful, Elle is going to take your kitchen over if you let her.” 

The Twi’lek, Yaj, laughs, “She is welcome to, neither of us are great cooks.”

“I apologize, were you not introduced to us as Cara and Jul?”

That’s the Chiss, clearly curious, but he’s polite about it so Cara explains, “Childhood nicknames.”

The man nods.

“Your cousin was talking about how she traded the ladle for the needle during the war. Were you also involved?”

“Rebel shock trooper,” simply says Cara, pointing to her tattoo. She elected not to put her armor back on, and the sleeveless top she has on makes it even more obvious than usual. 

The Chiss nods again, and Cara asks, “What about you?” 

If they were collaborators, she wants to know now. The man, André she now recalls, sighs.

“Well, I was teaching on Metellos at the time. We fell under Imperial rule pretty fast. Now, I’m a scholar, not a warrior, so my act of resistance is not as impressive as yours, but I did manage to save some artifacts from destruction.” 

Cara leans on the counter behind her.

“As long as you didn’t support them, you’re ok in my book. What about you, Yaj?”

The Twi’lek turns from where she is stirring soup on the stove. 

“I spent the whole time writing. I was writing before, and I kept doing so. I owned my own publishing company, and they had bigger fish to fry. I thank the Maker they never realized most of my books would not have passed censure.” 

“It never came up?” wonders Jul.

“Imperial officers tend to look down on romance, you can sneak all kinds of politics in there.” 

Cara, who like everybody else on the Crest has raided Din’s stash of holopads at some point or other, suddenly connects the dots. 

“Holy kriff, you’re Veilvor Ystetheec?”

Looking pleased, Yaj asks, ”You have read my work?”

“I mean, I don’t usually go for that style, but that’s basically all Din owns. He’s probably got every single one of your books.” 

Paz’s deep voice causes Cara to jump - she has not heard him come down the stairs, despite him wearing all the armor he currently owns. 

“He would,” says the Mandalorian, “seeing how he saved her from a forced marriage and then advised her on _Beskar in Bloom_.” 

Yaj tilts her head to meet the tall man’s visor and comments, “You are well informed.”

“He’s mentioned you a couple of times.”

“As he has you,” she admits, “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

There’s more to the words than meets the eye, but Cara can’t quite parse it out. A coo announces the last of the guests’ arrival, and they all watch Peapod toddle down one stair at a time, Din following patiently. He is down to his underarmor and helmet, a sign of trust, and Cara wonders at the relationship between him and Yaj. That Keldabe kiss earlier sure was ambiguous. 

Point in case, when they finally get close to the kitchen, she teases them, “Good of you to join us, husband.”

Din sighs, but it’s embarrassed rather than annoyed.

“The child needed a bath. And I really don’t think the term applies.” 

“We never did get that divorce, though,” argues Yaj, and Cara is really burning to ask some questions, and can see the curiosity in Elle too. 

“I guess not,” concedes Din. “Speaking of divorce, didn’t Lorita move in with you after her last one?”

“Oh, she did, she should be home soon.”

As if summoned, a woman walks in from the gardens, crossing the length of the room to make her way to the group, still standing around the kitchen. She’s wearing muddy healer’s robes, and even that can’t tarnish her allure. It’s in her sculptural afro, peppered with grey, the elasticity of her walking, her long limbs. 

“Did I hear my name?”

She’s got dimples when she smiles. 

“We were talking about your decision not to marry anymore,” André informs her.

“Ah, yes, I have resolved myself to torrid affairs only, my magnificence is simply not made to be chained to a single other being. Shy Guy, it’s lovely to see you again.”

She’s taller than Din, if considerably thinner, and goes for a hug that he returns readily, if a bit awkwardly. Unable to shut up anymore, Cara bemoans, “Is every attractive person you know somehow a past conquest, Din?”

Din stiffens and the newcomer leans nonchalantly on his shoulder.

“Ha no, that would be Yaj. I like my lovers with less dangly bits.”

The beauty makes a vague gesture at her crotch and Cara perks up. She likes a flamboyant woman, once in a while, and this Lorita is definitely up her alley.

“Lorita!” the Twi’lek hisses, “there are kids present!” 

Bending her tall frame to pick up the kid, who’s been watching the conversation unfold like it’s a ball game, Lorita lifts him up by the armpits until their faces align. 

“Hello, you. First thing you need to know about Aunty Lorita: don’t repeat anything she says.”

The kid gurgles and tries to reach for her hair. 

“Huh huh, kiddo, that’s not for eating or playing.” 

Depositing him back on the ground, she addresses all of them, “So the gang is complete, no? Let’s eat!”


	28. Paz Vizsla

Dinner was a rambunctious affair. The table was low to the ground, the kind that people sat on cushions at, kneeling or crossed legged. With seven adults around it, it was a tight fit. At least ten conversations simultaneously flew above the table, dishes piled upon it, and one small green child toddling around it, begging mouthfuls from every elbow until he crawled on Din’s lap and fell asleep there.

“How can he be an utter terror yet so cute,” sighed Jul, momentarily pausing her conversation with Yaj about _Alderaanian Hearts_ to marvel at the kid. Din ran a careful finger down the velvety ears.

“You won’t find him cute in three hours when he wakes.”

“You’re right. I’ll curse the stars for having ever put you on my path then.”

The tone is playful and her gaze loving as she watches the child sniffle in his sleep. 

“Come wake me up when he exhausts your energy. We’ll share in the pain,” offers Din.

“Nah. You’re probably cute too when you sleep, I wouldn’t risk it.”

Din lifted his gaze then, from the child to her. She was looking at him, her eyes still soft. A shiver ran up Din’s spine, and he thanked her quietly before turning his attention back on Yaj, who was watching them with a knowing smile. Din wasn’t sure what she knew exactly, only that he probably wouldn’t like what she had to say about it. Better redirect the conversation. 

“Didn’t you and André meet when you were researching the _Jetiise_?” he asked Yaj.

“We did. I needed some historical context for _Beskar in Bloom_. Turns out the Mandalorian-Jedi War isn’t his period of expertise, but we stayed in touch.”

Hearing his name, André had abandoned conversation with Cara and he jumped in, “I’ll preface by saying that I’m versed in the Jedi Order through my knowledge of the Clone Wars. However, I only have certitudes insofar as their political impact is concerned. They were very secretive about their powers and their link to the Force. Stories are told of their prowess in battle, single warriors able to defeat entire battalions against all odds, but the tales are so tall it is difficult to distinguish fact from legend. I know their philosophy encouraged being detached from emotions, and that their enemies were the Sith, another order of Force wielders with tenets the Jedi found abhorrent. Any more information would require research.”

“Research?” asked Jul.

The whole table was now listening to the professor, and he considered his audience before explaining, “The Empire destroyed most records on the Jedi. That said, in preparation for your arrival, I enlisted help from some colleagues and we have gathered what we could. The datapads will take scrolling through and reading between the lines.” 

Yaj, brushing her lekku to her back, like she was getting ready for something serious, commented, “It would be helpful to know what we are looking for exactly, and why.”

Din considered everybody around the table, and the child sleeping on his lap. He trusted these people, he realized, with his life and the kid’s. 

“I have been tasked with finding the children’s family, so he can be returned to them. His abilities put us on the track of the Jedi.” 

“One of his kind... “ said the Chiss. “You will want to learn more about Grand Master Yoda, then. He is the only other person of the same race I can think of, and he was a Jedi too.” 

Din’s mouth dropped open. With difficulty, he admitted, “That is… a great step forward. Never before has someone mentioned others of his race.”

The professor shrugged, “Well, one other, at least. I think his race is extremely rare, but Yoda is believed to have been several hundreds of years old. He likely perished during Order 66, I’m afraid.”

“Order 66?” interrupted Cara. 

André looked at his partner, who gently nodded, putting her hand on his shoulder. Clearing his throat, looking at his plate the back up, André finished, “Ah, I mentioned the Sith before? Sworn enemies of the Jedi, they were instrumental in the perversion of the Galactic Republic into the Empire. Senator Palpatine, later revealed to be Darth Sidious, had every clone implemented with a command chip. The chip made Palpatine’s orders absolute, and the clones his puppets. In 19 BBY, Palpatine used an attempted arrest by Jedis suspicious of his true nature to declare the Jedi Order out of control. He enacted Order 66, and the Clone Army turned against their Jedi Generals.”

André paused and Din glanced at his crew, who looked grim. 

“Surely, there must have been survivors,” remarked Paz.

André allowed himself a small smile, “We might hope so. But it will not be as easy as visiting the local Jedi Temple.” 

Din sighed, but it was Jul that concluded, “When is it ever?”


	29. Paz Vizsla

The next couple of days we spend at Din’s friend’s house are idyllic. The Healing Cup was already a lovely place to convalesce, but Birren has the advantage of a temperate, sunny weather. Spending hours poring over datapads isn’t so bad when you can do so outside, reclining on a comfy lawn chair with helmet-friendly snacks and drinks in easy reach. 

As the hours pass on the second day, I shed more and more armour, until Din, shaking his head, throws me a light tunic. 

“You might as well change, if you keep rolling up your pant legs you’ll stretch out your _kute_ (armour undersuit).”

The tunic must belong to our Twi’lek host, for she is the only one curvy enough for any of her clothing to fit me. I also doubt André wears floral patterns, he strikes me as more of a stripes or plaid guy on the weekend. At first, I’m reluctant. A Mandalorian has his pride, after all. Eventually the heat wins out, and I go change in my room. On my way back out of the house, I delight in Jul almost dropping a tray of drinks as she does a double take. I take the tray from her to avoid further accidents and she is stumbling from her laughter as she follows me outside, gasping, “This is… very… fetching Paz, oh Maker... wait for Cara… to see this.” 

“You are lucky I do not take offense easily,” I note, “or you would be in trouble, Julandielle.” 

The use of her full name does not dissuade the woman, and attracted by her raucous laughter, Cara, Yaj, and the kid make their way to us. 

“Oh my, Paz, I’m jealous. This suits you better than I,” says our host, confirming she is the owner of the garment attracting so much attention. 

“Careful not to tear the seams with those muscles, Big Guy,” notes Cara, amused as well. 

Turning to the child, I bemoan, “I have ruined the mystique, haven’t I?” 

The kid coos and holds out his arms, and I oblige. We are all suckers for Peapod, purveyor of ‘you didn’t pick me up’ tantrums. To be fair, he has a hard time keeping up with those short legs of his. But of course, since I picked him up, I get bamboozled into daycare why the others go back to their studying. Not that I mind extremely, seeing as I get to pretend the kid’s plushies are alive and chasing each other while Jul scratches her head, no less than three datapads open at once, taking notes on a forth one. 

Towards the end of the afternoon, we all throw in the towel and decide to head to the lake at André’s recommendation. Din has changed to a lighter outfit as well, one which, I notice, does not feature any small pink flowers despite being borrowed as well. Lorita twisted her hair back at the house and is helping Jul with hers. Soon, they are joining the others in stripping to their underwear and joyfully diving in. Din and I stick to dipping our feet in the cool water before retreating to the shade, as neither of us wants to show more skin than has already been revealed. 

Bookish André turns out to be a powerful swimmer, going to the other side of the lake and back before hovering near Jul and Yaj, helping them in their attempt to teach the kid how to swim. The four of them form a cute tableau, orange Twi’lek, blue Chiss, black Human, and green… whatever species is Peapod. There’s a lot of splashing, but not a lot of actual swimming happening. Lots of spraying water where Lorita and Cara are trying to dunk each other as well. Following my gaze, Din asks, “You don’t mind?”

Cara’s interest in Lorita has been obvious since we arrived, and while Lorita has not agreed yet, it’s clear she is not indifferent to Cara’s charm. I must admit they make a beautiful pair, the warrior and the healer, both sculptural in different ways. Din’s shoulder bumps mine, and I answer wistfully, “She warned me that she was not looking for a relationship, that she would move on, eventually.”

Din’s visor turns to me, then back to the water. Softly, he asks, “Are you ok?”

“I am a bit disappointed. Can you imagine, bringing her back to the Covert as my _riduur_ (spouse)?”

Din chuckles, “I can. The Armorer would love her.” 

I can picture it in my mind, the Armorer forging Cara a helmet. Shaking my head to dislodge the wistful thoughts, I ponder aloud, “I hope the Covert is safe. The lack of communication is worrying me.” 

“Finding a new location will take time. The Armorer will reach out when it is ready.”

I sigh, “This is the Way.”

“This is the Way,” repeats Din, and we sit in silence, enjoying the warm air, the nature, the laughter a short distance away. 

I think a bit more of Cara, of lost opportunities, and I think of Din, of Jul, of the slow dance they have been engaged in. I am jealous, a bit, and envious, a lot. They have the kind of relationship that starts slow but never peters out, not like the quick fire of my relationship with Cara. Despite Din’s promise the other night on the Crest, I wonder if his love will dim, if I will be a friend again and a lover no more. He is watching her right now as she patiently tries to manipulate water with the Force, a frown on her face, the kid pelting her with water he raises easily from the lake. I lean back on the tree we are sitting under and ask, “What about you, _vod_ (brother-in-arms), have you talked to Jul?” 

Din jolts like I shocked him with his own Amban rifle.

“Not… not yet.”

Hesitation is unlike him and, when I tell him so, he retorts, “I have never had so much to lose, Paz. I’m scared to upset the balance. What if she says no, and leaves?”

The raw honesty is costing him, I can tell by his posture, and I take the time to reflect on his justified fear before answering. 

“If it is not meant to be, would you not prefer to know now? And if the answer is not the one you hope for, I will be there to help you through the heartbreak.” 

Din leans forward, wrapping his arms around his knees, idling pulling out grass as he mumbles, “Sometimes, I wish my life didn’t revolve around violence. How can I ask her to put herself in such danger? What if she’s killed next time we run into the Empire?”

I know what he’s asking, deep down. Is it worth renouncing the Creed for a peaceful life with a green kid and a loving woman? I’ve not heard him doubt like this since we were teenagers.

“Are you having a crisis of faith?” I ask plainly. 

Din protests with vehemence, “No! I don’t regret following the _Resol'nare_. I simply wish this situation was easier.” 

I shake my head, reassured, “Din, how many times must I tell you… Mandalorians never were only about violence. On Mandalore, fighting skills were meant to keep one’s clan safe. To be able to walk, unarmored and barefaced, through one own’s home and covert. Sometimes even off planet, in public. Much has changed, but the want for a place that isn’t violent does not make you _dar’manda_ , Din. It just means you decided to walk a slightly different path.”

Being declared _dar-manda_ , un-Mandalorian, is the worst fate a Mandalorian can imagine. I suspect that Din’s choice to follow the strictest of interpretations when we were teenagers and when he swore the Creed stemmed from being a Foundling and wanting to prove himself. Through the years we have argued about what is the proper Way many times, but it seems my arguments are only now sinking in. Abandoning his massacre of the grass tufts, Din leans back, shoulder to shoulder with me. 

“This is _a_ Way?” he offers, pensive.

Shaking my head no, I correct him, “This is _the_ Way, too. It is my belief that those Mandalorians are no less, and no more, than we are.”

The silence stretches, each of us lost to our own thoughts, until André makes his way to us, wrapped in a sarong, still damp from the lake, a towel under one arm, and a wiggly, whiny child held firmly in his hands.

“I thought I might spare the child a sunburn by placing him with you in the shade. He is not fully dry yet.”

Din seizes the wet green alien and, once André has deployed the towel on the ground, puts the child down. He immediately makes for the lake again, and we spend a minute blocking his escape and sternly telling him ‘no!’ before he gives up, plopping his skinny rear on the towel and moping. He looks very serious about it, too, and I’m glad he hasn’t picked up crossing his arms from Cara when he disagrees with something, or I’d not be able to contain my laughter. Peapod does not take kindly to being mocked, and I have no desire to get soup poured down my shirt at dinner, or other equally petty acts of vengeance. For a creature who does not talk, he sure can express a lot. 

Once the monster is suitably distracted by floating some rocks, André settles by Din’s side and we observe the ladies as they are now playing some sort of game that involves throwing the kid’s ball back and forth, and a lot of yelling and posturing. Clearing his throat delicately to break the silence within our group, André turns to Din, “I hope I do not overstep by bringing this up, but I suspect I am the elder of this group, and as such should be forgiven for imparting unsolicited wisdom upon the younger generation. I am also somebody who wasted a few years before confessing to Yaj I loved her. I would recommend you do not delay as I did, Din Djarin.”

Din’s groan is heartfelt and, frankly, hilarious. 

“Does everybody know?” he asks, anguished, and André laughs.

“I have lectured many generations of students, and helmet or not, I can spot you two making moon eyes at the other when you think nobody is looking.” 

“You are pretty obvious, _vod_ ,” I add as a tease. 

For a man of almost forty years, who I know has slept with almost strangers as long as they proved to be trustworthy, Din can be shy about feelings, and he closes right up. André sighs at his silence, and tries another approach. 

“To speak plainly, your endeavor to find kin of race or ability for the child is a dangerous one. Even beyond that goal, the life you lead is rife with death. Tell me, do you expect to die of old age?”

Din gets out, “No. I’ll die the day I become too slow.”

“Ah, see. Why delay telling her then? Every day is one less you could have spent closer to the person you long for. Also, not to belabor the point, but women who can cook you a feast as well as sew your wounds close don’t come up very often. I’ll not mention her compatibility as a parent with the child you adopted either.”

With a heavy sigh, Din admits, “You make good points.”

We are silent for a long moment, after which André gets up, pats the child on the head, tells us he will see us at dinner, and heads back to the house, a skinny old man with a beautiful life.


	30. Cara Dune

Eventually, the women get tired and they join the Mandalorians under their tree, where they silently guard a sleeping green womp rat rolled in a towel. Cara thinks they look kriffing funny, in their helmets and borrowed robes maintained closed by their weapons belt. 

“I don’t know if I should laugh or melt from the cuteness,” comments Yaj. 

The Twi’lek sounds amused and fond at the same time. Lorita is laughing, but when Cara glances at her cousin, she looks to be in the ‘finding it adorable’ camp. The guys get up when they approach, Din carefully picking up his rolled-up child, and they all make their way back to the house. Then it’s a fight for who gets to shower first, the house’s two bathrooms with full running water, at a premium. 

Jul and Cara win the first round, and when she exits, Cara’s hair is a mess. She is not used to rinsing it with real water, and it’s hopelessly tangled. Her cousin’s ringlets fared better and when Cara asks her, she answers excitedly, “Why do you think I picked Lorita’s bathroom? She’s got the right hair stuff, and then some.”

Popping in and out of the room before the next person takes it over, she comes out with a couple of jars, a spray bottle, and various combs. 

“Come on, I’ll do your hair.” 

This has been one of the nice perks of being with family again, not having to mourn alone through a disheveled braid. It’s tradition on Alderaan that others should braid your hair, family or friends, and so Cara never learned how to do her own properly. Now, they head downstairs to the living area, Jul sitting on the couch and Cara at her feet. 

“Would you like me to braid yours, after?” she offers, quietly, soothed by the rhythmic pulling. 

So far, Jul has turned Cara down every time she has offered. Jul weaves a few more strands of Cara’s hair before answering. 

“We have the right stuff on hand, I guess…” 

She’s hesitant, but seems to be considering it, at least, and so Cara pushes her luck, “Any reason you didn’t want to before, Elle? We could have gotten the right products.”

“I don’t… I think…”

Cara waits, knowing the words will come out, eventually. In a low voice, Jul eventually confesses, “I don’t think I deserve it. What I did, with the stormtroopers… It’s not how we were raised, you know. There was no justice in… in _enjoying_ their death.” 

Cara knows, abstractly, that her cousin isn’t accusing her, but if Jul didn’t have a good grip on her scalp and been busy making complicated plaits, Cara might have turned around and taken offense. 

“Do you believe _I_ don’t deserve it?” she asks, and she is louder, and sounds more hurt than she wanted to. 

“Tss. Don’t be silly.” 

Jul pulls sharply on some hair and Cara groans in pain. 

“You forget I can sense you,” her cousin continues, “killing is what needs to be done for you. You take joy in a fair fight, like when you spar, but you don’t relish killing.”

She sounds so certain that Cara calms down. The truth is she has, in the past, enjoyed some of her mercenary work maybe more than Jul gives her credit for. She is not unfamiliar with the guilt her cousin is wrestling with. 

“I’ve done stuff I’m not proud of, you know. As long as you realize it was no good, and don’t do it again, it’s ok.” 

Her cousin’s huff is strong enough that Cara feels it on her nape. Tone disbelieving, Jul says, “Just like that, poof.” 

“Yep. Your sins are forgiven, my child.” 

Jul’s chuckle is a bit weak, but present, and Cara counts it as a victory. Her cousin keeps going, her hands agile, and they are silent. Then Paz lumbers past, a fussy, hungry green child in his arms, to whom he speaks Mando’a in a tone that conveys amusement and reassurance both. 

“Speaking of sins… Paz ok with the whole… Lorita thing?” 

Jul’s voice is the barest of whispers, and Cara answers, equally quietly, “I’ll talk to him tonight. He’s nice! Just…”

Jul hums in understanding. 

“I was surprised you even went for him in the first place.” 

Cara shrugs, “Have you looked at him? How could I say no.” 

The fingers on Cara’s scalp pause, and Jul must be looking at the man, who is back to wearing a body-tight suit that leaves little to the imagination. Jul’s hands resume their work and she admits, “Point taken.”

Cara, after glancing to the kitchen space, adds in a murmur, embarrassed, “I always think I might catch feeling later, when the sex is good and the guy nice.” 

Cara feels Jul tie off the last of the braid, and her cousin slips off the couch to sit next to her.

“Has it ever worked?”

Cara grimaces.

“No.”

Jul wraps an arm over her cousin’s shoulder and pulls her into a side hug.

“You never fall in love with the boys, anyway,” she states, matter-of-fact.

“I… what?” 

“I mean, you might have changed since we were teens, but while you lusted after everybody, you only ever crushed on the girls back then.”

Cara turns to her cousin like she is seeing her for the first time. She _is_ right. How can somebody she didn’t interact with for almost all of her adult life can still know her so well? 

“Kriff, I had never noticed,” admits Cara, shell shocked. 

Jul pats her shoulder, “Don’t forget to talk with Paz though, we still gotta share a ship later.” 

Cara is grumbling her assent when Yaj, from the stairs, calls out, “Is our couch not to your liking?” 

“No, it’s fine,” apologizes Jul, getting up, “I was just finishing Cara’s hair.” 

Yaj nods, patting her lekku, “I must say I can’t fathom wasting so much time dealing with something like it.” 

Lorita and Din are also coming down the stairs and Lorita exclaims, “Well, you can always shave it or hide it and call it a day.”

Then Din adds, “What did you think the helmet’s for?” 

The tone is so deadpan, it takes a second for the room to catch up, but Lorita’s bark of a laugh triggers all of them. The sound attracts Paz and André’s attention and they all debate hair care routines until a chime from the kitchen calls some of them away. Jul is about to jump in to help, but Cara stops her, “Even if you don’t want me to braid your hair, you could ask Lorita.”

The woman in question pats her afro and pipes in, “Oh honey, I hate to disappoint but I’m afraid my talents are sorely limited when it comes to hair plaiting. There’s a reason I went natural.” 

Cara would give up, but she can see the two Mandalorians having an entire conversation, all in tilted helmets and discreet finger taps. 

“Care to share with the group?” prompts Cara. 

“Paz can do it,” immediately says Din, getting an angry fist waved at him for his trouble.

But Jul is smiling at Paz, saying, “I’d appreciate it if you’re willing.” 

And well… There’s no resisting Jul’s smile, Cara knows. Grumbling, Paz admits, “It is part of my duty to attend to all the kids’ hair, at the Covert. I make no promises for the result, however.”

Paz is a kriffing liar, is what it is. It takes him the better part of an hour, but he does a splendid job, expertly juggling combs, clips, and jars of various products as he goes. The cornrows form a pattern on the first half of Jul’s head, a sun originating from the middle of her hairline, more rays added between the main ones as more hair becomes available. Dinner is ready and they are running out of time, so Paz leaves the back of her head unbraided. Jul’s hair doesn’t have the sheer volume of Lorita’s, but it still bounces in a halo of tight curls once Paz is done styling it. It looks really nice, and Paz gets compliments that seem to embarrass him to no end, even when Din declares something in Mando’a that he says means that Paz’s skill as a parent makes him a good Mandalorian. Yaj has Din repeat both Mando’a and translation, taking notes on a datapad, and Cara suspects Paz has earned himself an appearance in the next installment of _Beskar in Bloom_. 

The Mandalorians skip out during dinner and join the group back for dessert and debrief. They all compare notes on their readings of the day. Cara wasn’t the most assiduous, to be honest, some of those texts were so dry they put her to sleep. André, Yaj, and Paz are in their element though, and before long André is pacing the room, summarizing, “So we have invincible warriors yielding swords made of light able to parry blaster shots. They can also float objects and people, and communicate telepathically with others, sometimes even control minds. Ah, they can also heal grevious wounds. It all seems preposterous, and yet, Imperial and Republican sources align, let alone your first-hand accounts, which lends credence to the tales.”

“At least, we know from Mandalorian history that beskar can stop those lightsabers,” contributes Paz.

“Right, in case you run into those bad ones, the Sith?” adds Yaj.

“Well, those Jedi might not be friendly either,” sighs Din. 

“So what’s next?” interjects Cara before the mood sours. 

“How do we find whomever is left, to teach the child?” wonders Paz.

“Seems like some of them might have fought with the Rebels. Don’t you have friends you could reach out to?” suggests Yaj.

Cara shooks her head no, “We didn’t part on the best terms.” 

There’s a moment of expectant silence and Cara is wondering how to avoid saying anything more when Din volunteers, “I’m probably wanted by the New Republic.” 

Several voices rise asking why and Cara makes a note to thank Din for the distraction later. Eventually, Din’s voice rises over the questions, “I was alone, out of the Guild. I took the jobs I could. I had to put soup on the table for the kid, ok!” 

Silence falls and they all turn towards the couch, where one velvety green ear sticks out of a pile of cushions and blankets. The ear flickers, and they turn back to each other. Then Lorita, so far pretty silent, slaps a holopad on the table.

“Darlings, what about the temples? This map has plenty of them, and with the Empire defeated, the Jedi might go back to them.” 

André is immediately enthusiastic, “The temples are said to have expansive libraries! Even abandoned, they might contain precious knowledge.” 

It’s a good idea, and soon everybody is clamoring again, adding to the list of reasons why. Eventually Din has to get up to get them to shut up. 

“I heard all of you. Let’s do it. Let’s visit a Jedi temple.”


	31. Din Djarin

It would take him a day or two more to figure out the details of the trip, thought Din as he snuck away to the library, seeking peace and quiet from the ruckus downstairs. The kid was zooming about the vast living space, squealing as the adults present engaged in a pillow fight over his head. Lorita and André were off to work, but Yaj had long abandoned any hope of getting writing done and had joined in the fun instead. She had even been the first one to put the ‘throw’ back into throw pillow. 

Din had taken one Force-aimed cushion whack to the head from Jul and decided that he better go do his calculations somewhere quieter. The library upstairs had more books and datapads than Din’s memory of Yaj’s office in her previous house, but she had kept the old armchair, which he sank in gracefully. It was close to the window, with the wide windowsill in reach, the perfect spot for a mug of tea or of caf. He was halfway through figuring out their second hyperspace jump when a knock on the open door had him raise his head. 

It was Yaj, poking her head in, “Can I come in?”

“It’s your house,” Din pointed out, and she walked over with a smile. 

“Everything ok?” she asked gently once she was near.

Leaning back in the chair to look up at her, Din explained, “Too noisy to count downstairs.” 

Cara - or maybe Jul? - chose just this moment to let out a yell that got cut by Paz’s booming laugh. 

“You’re allowed to relax, you know,” remarked Yaj, sitting on the window sill. 

“Every day we stay here endangers you more. It is likely they are still tracking the child.”

Yaj smoothed her lekku nervously. 

“When the account disappeared, I feared the worst…” 

Din had almost forgotten about that. As payment for his consulting on _Beskar in Bloom_ , her ongoing romance series featuring Mandalorians, Yaj would transfer a portion of her earnings to the Covert’s account. An account the Armorer’s first move would have been to liquidate when they scattered.

“I’m sorry I didn’t reach out earlier.”

“You had other things on your mind, I know that now. Are the other Mandalorians ok?” 

“Paz saw most of them make it out. They are hiding in small groups while the Armorer looks for a new secure location.” 

“You need this more than them right now anyway,” said Yaj, handing Din a bag heavy with credits. 

“Yaj… that’s too much.” 

“No. It’s your deserved share for the past few months.”

Din glanced in the bag. The credits were a mix of New Republic credits and Calamari Flan. Tilting his head, the bounty hunter stared at Yaj. 

“Ok, maybe there is a small advance in there too,” conceded the Twi’lek with a smile. 

Waiving away Din’s protests, she teased, “That kid of yours is costly to feed, or so I’ve heard.” 

Groaning, Din countered, “He wouldn’t be if Jul didn’t insist on keeping live amphibians for him.” 

Yaj chuckled, but her tone was serious when she noted, “She’s doing a great job with him. He seems happy.” 

Din thought back to traveling alone with the child, the both of them constantly sleep deprived from the kids nightmares or his overabundance of energy. 

“She is. He’s got someone who understands him now, who has time for him.” 

The self-deprecation didn’t escape Yaj, and she settled a comforting hand on Din’s knee.

“You seem happy too.”

The noise downstairs had abated, Din noticed, but he could still perceive the rumble of Paz’s voice, answered by Cara’s cheek and Jul’s laughter. 

“I am,” he admitted, as much to himself as to Yaj, “I’ve got a good crew.” 

Yaj’s right lekku wiggled, and her lips twitched in a smile. She leaned closer.

“I got the feeling something else might be contributing.”

Din, feeling his face heat up under the helmet, was careful not to squirm. 

“You mean Paz?” he attempted, keeping his voice neutral.

“Huh huh. Call it writer’s intuition, but I rather thought new love was in the air.” 

Yes, Yaj was teasing him, but she was also the one person he could actually talk about those kinds of things with, outside of Paz, who obviously was biased.

“I might… have a crush,” Din admitted with difficulty. 

He could feel himself starting to sweat, and he was only wearing his _kute_ , so the heat couldn’t be blamed. Yaj patted his knee. 

“Good. She has it bad for you too. You’ll be lovely together.” 

Din’s insides somersaulted. 

“She does?” he squeaked. 

Yaj bit her lip, restraining a laugh, and Din straightened up in the chair, wanting to escape all of a sudden. 

“No, no, I’m sorry, stay.” 

He settled back down, vibrating with nerves. Taking pity on him, Yaj explained, “We talked at the lake yesterday. She thinks the stars of you, Din. She was a bit miffed when she realized we, hmm, consummated our marriage, let’s say.” 

Half curious and half feeling like a black hole wasn’t enough to contain his embarrassment, Din asked, “Doesn’t she know about Paz?”

“Oh, she does. You don’t need the Force to catch those vibes. But you’re both men, and open to other relationships. She might not enjoy the… precedent I represent.” 

Din was lost. What precedent? 

“Because we never were in love?” he wondered aloud. 

Yaj leaned back on the windowsill, laughter in her voice, “Ouch, right in the feels! There might be some of that, but I think she’s more worried about the fact that I’ve got a decade on you, an independent source of income, and wide acclaim for my books.” 

“But, I don’t care about any of it.” 

“She doesn’t know that.” 

“She’s an empath!” protested Din again. 

“She can sometimes skim emotions. There’s a difference between sensing somebody is attracted to you and knowing they are falling in love with you. Talk to the woman, Din. Make it clear what you feel, and what you want.”

Deflating, the Mandalorian curled up in the armchair. 

“I’m not sure. About what I feel, nor what I want. But I can’t get any of it anyway as long as the kid isn’t safe.” 

With a sigh, Yaj got up. 

“He’s your priority, I get it, but one doesn’t preclude the other. Just… Don’t give up before trying.” 

She walked to the door, and she was about to leave when Din cleared his throat. 

“Thanks, Yaj. For everything.” 

“Anything for my husband.” 

She was teasing, but sincere too. Din offered, “We can get that divorce, if you and André want to marry.” 

Throwing her lekku behind her back, Yaj declared, “Marriage on Birren is an outdated, patriarchal institution. I refuse to contribute to an oppressive system that should be obsolete.”

She was clearly imitating André, and Din chuckled. 

“Well, you just let me know. Marriage, divorce… whatever you need, I’ll be there.” 

“Thanks, Shy Guy.” 

She winked, and went out the door. 


	32. Din Djarin

Din’s conversation with Yaj rattled around the Mandalorian’s bucket all evening, as dinner came and went, as he bathed a wriggly Peapod, and as he worked some more on their trajectories while Paz did some reading at his side, in the library. Lorita and Cara had called it an early night, and from Paz’s sighs and morose attitude, Din had understood the carnal aspect of his relationship with Cara was fully over. He’d probed at his _ori’vod_ (best mate), but Paz had waived him off with a feeble joke about his only regret being that he’d not been invited. 

So they sat in silence, both distracted by their thoughts as they tried to work. Night had fallen and the house was quiet. Last he’d seen them, André, Yaj, and Jul were downstairs, sorting through holopads and discussing their research into the Jedi. Peapod was asleep in his pram, floating between Paz and Din. The light creak of the stairs alerted them both to somebody’s approach, and when Jul poked her head in, it didn’t come as a surprise. 

“Hey, Din, can I talk to you for a minute?” 

Din felt a mix of excitement and nerves take residence in his gut. Despite all the thinking, he hadn’t come up with anything clever to say, and part of him hoped she just had a mundane question about groceries. 

“Sure.” 

The bounty hunter strode confidently to the door, and only paused at Paz’s pointed throat clearing. Turning around, Din realized Peapod’s pram was tethered to him, and he quickly switched it to Paz’s helmet before joining Jul in the hallway. She glanced left, then right, before offering, “Should we take a walk?” 

She sounded nervous, and Din agreed. They made their way downstairs, waved at André - his partner had fallen asleep, a datapad on her chest - and crossed the greenhouse to the gardens. After a couple of minutes walking in silence, passing from the lit yard into the shaded woods, Din prompted Jul. 

“You wanted to talk?” 

Stopping in a pool of moonlight filtering through the canopy, the medic looked up at his helmet. She opened her mouth a couple of times, then finally declared, “Din, I would like you to stop paying me.” 

Money had been a bit tight, and so Din had not always kept up with his promise of wages. He was about to apologize when Jul added, “You don’t pay Paz, or Cara, after all. Plus, I’ve been spending all the credits on toys for the kid anyway. I mean, I just... this is not a job anymore. I’m invested, I want to get Peapod what he needs. Someone his race, or people to teach him who know the Force better than I do.” 

There was more there, Din felt, but he agreed to her terms. 

“You deserve it, but it’s your choice. Jul, I don’t thank you enough for it, but you are doing great with the kid.”

She broke eye contact then, and weakly joked, “Don’t speak too fast, he juggled some knives again during dinner prep today.” 

“Nobody got cut.”

Din wished he could show her how the kid was thriving thanks to her, and he wanted to bring up how _he_ was thriving too, and he found the words were eluding him for both. He was a Mandalorian, dank farrik, why could he not tell a woman he liked her? With a sigh, he started walking again, and she followed. Eventually, he asked, “Jul, are you happy? You wished for a life devoid of violence, and… this is not it.”

They had reached the lake now, stepping out from under the trees and under the moonlight once more. She stopped at the shore, looking over the water, answering slowly. 

“I don’t know Din. I think we’ll have to see. I’m scared of myself, of those powers, but that’s why I need to go on this next trip too. Peapod already taught me a lot. What could I learn from a true master? Don’t get me wrong, I liked my life before, it was easy, but I find that I don’t miss it. Lots of acquaintances but no real friends, moving planets every few years when I got bored... I was lonely.”

Din turned to look at her, and she was looking at him already, wistful, and he felt his heart swell. He wanted to kiss her. Lips to lips, Creed be damned, he wanted to kiss her. At that instant, with a clarity he had been missing, Din knew he was in love. There was no way he could admit the words aloud yet, but liking the shape of them, he thought: _I’m in love with you_.

Jul shuddered. 

“Din…” 

She closed the distance between them, bringing them chest to chest, and in the hairsbreadth between them, she murmured, “Maker, you’re killing me.”

Frozen on the spot, wondering how much of his ebullient feelings she could feel, Din asked, “Hug ok?”

And he thought _I’m in love with you._

Jul’s hands scrambled on his undersuit until they found purchase at his waist, and she grasped the fabric, pulling him to her, their bodies colliding, the heat of her skin through the fabric of their clothes intoxicating. 

_I’m in love with you_ , Din thought again, helpless to reign in his mind, bringing his arms up around her shoulders and squeezing. 

They stood there a while, sharing space. 


	33. Paz Vizsla

I startle awake when my _dik’ut_ (idiot) of a roommate stumbles on my gear, causing it to clang. In a reflex honed by the years, I’m wearing my helmet before I’m fully awake, and the night vision shows me Din, wobbling this way and that like a drunken fool. He’s humming to himself, and I realize that he might be dancing to himself, peeling off his layers. 

“Good night?” I ask, in my driest tone. 

The following jump in the air is most satisfying, thought the blaster aimed at me feels a little unwarranted. 

“What, were you expecting somebody else to be waiting for you in bed?” 

“Shhh, not so loud, Paz.”

Din holsters his weapon and deposits it within easy access of his side of the bed. He finishes undressing, his _kute_ (undersuit) squelching bizarrely, before throwing on a tunic. We go through our routine helmet removal countdown, and he joins me in bed. It’s my turn to hiss as his freezing feet find my calves. He’s weirdly… damp?

“Did you go swimming?” I ask, incredulous.

Din giggles. I didn’t even know he still could, not since his voice stopped cracking at around age fourteen. 

“Din, are you alright?” 

“Yes, Paz, I’m quite alright.” 

He’s wriggling in the sheets now, getting comfortable. He sounds sober, so there’s that. 

“What kind of _talk_ did you two have, because I would tremendously enjoy some of it.”

He swats at me and gets me good in the stomach.

“Don’t be crass. We talked, we hugged, and we went swimming. That’s all.” 

Rubbing my abused torso, I remark, “I was under the impression you could not swim.” 

Here’s that giggle again, then, more seriously, “She taught me some basics. Probably all moot with the armor on, now that I think of it.” 

“No shit.” 

He sighs and we settle down. I’m glad he’s happy, I am, but I feel… left out. Which I shouldn’t really, the guy is leaching body heat off of me right now, cuddling in bed. But still. What if he decides he wants to share her bed every night, once they get past the hugging stage? And if Din’s that ecstatic from just the hugging, what the kriff he is going to be like when they actually start having sex? 

“Paz, you’re thinking too loud.” 

Din soothes a hand down my arm, then back up, back down, and I relax. 

“I was not aware reading thoughts was a skill one could acquire through osmosis.” 

“You went stiff. What’s up?” 

I find one of his hands and lace our fingers. 

“Did you tell her you love her?” 

“I thought it. She heard.” 

“What did she say?”

“She hugged me.”

“That’s it?” 

“That’s it.”

“And then you went swimming.” 

“Yes.”

He says it with such solid assurance, like their love didn’t need actual words to be exchanged, and my gut aches. _Has any poet ever been in my position, and wrote about it?_ I wonder. I wish I could comfort myself with the words of those wiser than I, but nothing comes to mind. Plenty of poems about heartbreak do, though. 

“Paz?”

Din moves around, gluing himself to my side. In a whisper, he says, “I knew I was in love with her because I wanted to kiss her.”

I hum, showing I’m listening. With a peck on my jaw, the nearest thing he can reach without actually moving, he mumbles something that takes a while to reach my half-asleep brain. 

“Paz, you’re the only other person I’ve ever wanted to kiss.”


	34. Cara Dune

The Temple Tour, as André baptized it, starts by jumping a couple of sectors away to the Kashyyyk system. An old inventory mentioned artifacts stored in a vault on Alaris Prime, making it a promising target. It takes a while for Din to spot a suitable landing area, the forest of immense wroshyr trees almost impenetrable close to the location they know the temple to be in. Eventually, Din sneaks the Crest under a tree’s taller canopy and lowers them between two of the skyscraper-thick trunks. Enthusiasm is high as the group gets ready, Paz good naturedly complaining about it but accepting the burden of carrying the lunch Jul prepared for them. 

Things get a bit hairy when one of the grassy underbush paths they take turns out to be riddled with giant holes full of gnasps. _Everything is outsized here_ , thinks Cara as she shoots enormous insect after enormous insect. Thankfully, the swarm disperses once the expedition is away from their nests, the carnage the three fighters are causing dissuading the bugs from pursuit. Jul checks everybody for injuries, but aside from being scratched by some branches, they all are sound and safe. Just in case, Jul takes the time to collect venom from one of the fallen gnasp’s stinger and prepares an anti-venom. 

By the time they reach the Jedi Vault, they are sweaty and hungry, but still optimistic. The Vault looks intact, and after a quick recon by Din and a Force probing by Jul and Peapod, they are utterly alone here. 

Disappointment is that much starker when the Vault turns out to be completely empty. 

They carefully examine every room, looking for secret niches or other hiding places, but whomever cleaned this place out cleaned it good. The mood is subdued as they lunch inside the dusty, abandoned place and make their way back to the Crest. 

It’s Paz who suggests making a quick detour by the grassy plains they spotted on their fly over to hunt something for dinner. They hunt on foot, Alderaanians vs Mandalorians, and Cara will lord their victory over the boys for many days. Thanks to Jul and Peapod’s trick of sensing life, they find the nerf herd first. Jul provides the noisy distraction that sends them running and, in the stampede, Cara cleanly shoots a smaller male in the head. 

Best of all, Cara invokes the nerf’s corrosive saliva to get the fully armored members of the crew to deal with the stinky carcass. Lounging on the open ramp of the Crest, she lazily cleans her gun while observing as Din has to crawl inside the opened carcass to finish removing the innards. _That armor is going to be fun to clean_ , she thinks to herself as Paz, the prankster, let’s go of the ribs and temporarily traps Din inside. 

Eventually they all enjoy a dinner of barbecued tenderloin and grilled asparagus, the cleaned up Mandos each in a spot of the ship, yelling insults in Mando’a back and forth in between bites while Jul, and Cara enjoy a glass of wine, tasty food, and the fresh outside air. After dinner, Din gets them back on their Temple Tour. Once stable in space, Cara helps Jul figure out how to store the meat in the temperature controlled storage cabinet in the hold. They distract Peapod with some of the cooked meat, hoping he doesn’t remember the raw meat in the cabinet by the time he’s hungry again. They have repeatedly changed or upgraded locking mechanisms of the closet, but the green monster seems to always figure them out. It’s a bit of a game at this point, since he never tries to get into the weapon’s cabinet. Jul keeps easily accessible - and healthy - snacks on the most obvious shelves. It’s not like the kid is putting on extra weight, despite his appetite, though he has grown up a bit. 

By the time they kip down for the night, Mandos in one cabin and cousins in another, Cara feels like it hasn’t been such a terrible day, despite the empty vault. 


	35. Paz Vizsla

Our next stop turns out to be a jungle world, Ledeve, with forests so dense we have to apply an abundance of flamethrower and vibroblade to open our way. The humidity has my armour’s temperature control go on the fritz immediately. Din’s more recent make holds up, but not the guidance in his helmet. Even Cara, who tends to refuse to complain just to show the cause of the problem she’s stronger than it starts grumbling two hours in, dripping with sweat, and not in a sexy way. Bizarrely, Peapod in Jul’s bulletproof medic pack and the woman herself seem maybe not immune, but definitely better. 

“It’s the Force,” she says, “I think it’s stronger than on the Alaris moon.”

“And you’re using it for cooling?” asks Cara.

“I think it just wants us to feel comfortable.” 

“It’s a shame your Force doesn’t care about us mere mortals,” I note bitterly, drinking water and wishing armor wasn’t quite so integral to my identity. 

“It does,” says Jul, “you just can’t feel it.” 

She pauses a second, letting me catch up, and holds out a hand. When I offer mine, intrigued, she pulls down a glove just enough to place two fingers on my pulse. I’m about to ask what’s this all about when she scrunches her forehead and I feel it: a cool sensation spreading from our point of contact, sending a delicious shiver through my whole body. 

“How…”

“Paz, _din'kartay_ (sitrep)?” 

That’s Din, yelling from the front of the group. 

“ _Ori jate_ (all good)!” 

Jul lets go of my wrist, and the overwhelming heat returns immediately. 

“I think it’s more a mind trick than really cooling you down,” she explains. 

We chat in bits and pieces before the effort requires all of our breath and focus to keep advancing through the jungle, and it’s… nice. It’d be easier to be jealous if she wasn’t such a perfect fit for Din. At first, it was shocking that he would take an interest in somebody who’s a proclaimed pacifist. Ten years ago, pre-Purge, I would have had a row with him, as a proud member of the Death Watch, as an heir to Pre Vizsla. But, being stuck at the Covert more than most, I’ve had a lot of time to think, and a lot of time to ask the right questions. We also learned some hard truths, the two of us, when he started researching Mandalorian culture for Yaj’s books. 

Din’s _buir_ (parent) aligned with the most conservative of Mandalorians in his vow to never remove the helmet. I don’t think Din ever saw his face. When they joined the Covert on Nevarro, Din was still a kid, and was already wearing the helmet all the time. I was too, I guess, but that had more to do with the expectations that came with my last name. I was also older. As kids, we decided we wanted to be more flexible with the helmets, especially when we realized some of the traditionalists were cheating anyway, removing their helmets in darkness. I decided, should I have one, that I would show my face to my whole _aliit_ (clan, family). Din used to say he’d only ever do it for his spouse and kid, but now I wonder, with him having put together this crew of five, if he will change his mind. And if he sticks with spouse and kid only, I wonder when he’s going to formally adopt the kid, and who he is going to pick as the spouse. It’s not like he’s ever agreed to say the words in the twenty plus years we’ve been involved, despite me asking a few times. And it’s not like I can give him kids, should he want them. 

My dark thoughts get interrupted by a yell from the front of the group. By the time I’ve managed to drag myself forward, I can’t help the groan of dismay that escapes me. We’ve found the temple: it’s a pile of weathered stones covered in vegetation. We break for food and water, then hack and burn some more lianas, but at the end of the day, Ledeve is a bust. 

Not only that but, during our pit stop at the minuscule spaceport for some fuel, the locals get the bright idea to try and take us on. Seems like they’ve heard about the value of beskar, but somehow missed the memo entirely about the people wearing it and their lethality. We take off in a hurry, leaving some corpses behind, and Jul’s got a frown on her face for days. 


	36. Din Djarin

They had gone into their Temple Tour knowing that not every location would yield more information, but at this point Din really hoped the next one would not be a total failure. A half broken holopad, a scrap of flimsi, half of somebody’s name… Any clue would be welcome. They had just finished the quick tour of the Jedi Temple’s ruins on Vrogas Vas, and it had contained nothing but dust. The structure had thankfully been near a town with a spaceport, and the remnants of the road leading to the temple had been good enough to make the trip a quick one by speeder. The planet’s air was breathable, but Din was grateful for his helmet’s filter as Cara & Jul had explained it smelled quite strongly of sulfur. The area had heavy volcanic activity and the gas chimneys produced a foul fog which rolled over the hills, slow yet inexorable. 

The mood was somber as they handed the bikes back to the cantina’s owner they had rented them from, and made their way to the spaceport. Cara was trying to lift everybody’s spirit by talking about the next stop on their route, but it fizzled out when they spotted the Razor Crest. Waiting for them was a welcome committee of two New Republic X-Wings, their pilots and three more soldiers waiting, blasters in hand if not aimed, in front of the Crest. A quick look around showed a couple more soldiers on top of the nearby building, weapons trained on Din and his crew from their vantage point. It was not the worst odds Din ever had to deal with, but Cara and Jul were not as protected, and Din signaled Paz to hold off. 

Jul tied her backpack close, hiding the child, and stepped forward. 

“To what do we owe the pleasure?” she said, a smile that looked natural enough on her face. 

The leader of the squad, a pale-skinned human, ignored her and asked Din, “Is this ship your property?”

Din came up to Jul’s level, “It belongs to me.” 

“Then there is a warrant out on you for the abduction of prisoner X-Six-Nine-Eleven.”

At that, both Paz and Cara also stepped forward, hands on their holsters, and the four soldiers behind the leader tensed up, aiming each at one of the Razor Crest’s crew. The squad leader, however, holstered their weapon and announced, “Well, onboard security records also show that you apprehended three priority culprits. And your ship was also pinged in the vicinity of a station we destroyed. Coincidently, the destruction of said station led to the termination of prisoner X-Six-Nine-Eleven’s chain code.” 

Din glanced at Paz, then back at the leader. 

“Am I good to go then?” he eventually ventured. 

“You are. We would like to see some identification though.” 

_Bit of a pickle, that, as Paz would say,_ thought Din. Both Paz and himself only existed in the Mandalore Registry, and while the Empire had clearly gotten access to it during the Purge, Din doubted they had shared with the New Republic. All citizens of systems “liberated” by the New Republic had been instructed to register themselves as citizens, but Din was not keen to give his chain code to anybody. Before he could try to figure his way out of this, Jul stepped forward again. 

“We do not have any current travel document,” she announced. 

“Well, I’ll have to run your chaincode then,” calmly said the squad leader. 

“With all due respect, I do not think you understand, sir. Our planet of citizenship doesn’t exist anymore and can’t issue us new ones.”

Whipping out a flimsi booklet that had seen better days, Jul handed it out to the squad leader. It had Alderaanian script on the cover and, when the leader opened it and carefully paged through it, a Coruscant visa stamp. Holding the passport to the sun to check the counterfeit-proof inks, the squad leader commented. 

“Far from Coruscant, I see.”

“I’m on vacation with my cousin. We are touring Jedi points of interest.”

Jul pointed to Cara, who put her fists on her hips like a tourist growing annoyed to be slowed down at customs. Din had to credit them for the acting. 

“And these two?” pressed the squad leader. 

“Hired bodyguards.”

Eyebrows raised, the leader commented, “Really?”

“I don’t think you understand, sir. I’m Julandielle Dune, last heir to the House Dune of Alderaan. I’m a duchess. My parents had dinner with senator Organa once a week or so. I grew up playing blocks with Leia Organa. Yes, that Leia Organa. Following the _destruction of my homeworld_ , I signed up as a medic with the Rebellion. My cousin was a shock trooper. We are touring the remnant of a civilization destroyed by the Empire, sometimes on worlds we helped _liberate_. Now, sir, are we good to go, or do you wish to question our credentials further? Because I might start asking about yours.”

All along Jul’s monologue, whose voice had grown sharper and colder as she went, the New Republic soldiers had backed off slowly but surely, and by the time she was finished and the leader glanced left and right for their squad’s support, they were standing alone between them and the Razor Crest. 

“My Lady, er, Your Highness, you are free to go.” 

The leader handed Jul her passport back like it was burning them, and Jul lost no time in stomping to the Razor Crest. Din hurried to open the ramp, and as soon as it closed behind them, Jul urged him, “Quick, go, go, go, take off! They’re going to remember they haven’t run anybody else’s code in a second!”

And indeed, Din was barely pushing the throttle that the squad leader tried to hail the Razor Crest while the pilots headed for their X-Wings.

“Oh Maker, that was so good Jul, you sounded exactly like your Dad.”

Cara sounded giddy, standing behind and gripping the seat Jul had thrown herself into, as the Crest rose in the air. The ship shook as Din pushed it to rise through the atmosphere at a steeper angle than was really recommended. The X-Wings were just poking out of the spaceport as they transitioned to the smoothness of space. The radar showed the X-Wings were in pursuit, but Din already had their next jump programmed, and it only took a second to account for their current location before he took the Crest into hyperspace. 

“Was there any veracity to your claims of nobility?” asked Paz from the port side seat, sounding amused. 

Din pivoted in his seat, curious about the answer. With a sigh of relief, Jul turned away from the streak of stars beyond the windshield and got Peapod out of the pack she had been clutching. He was grumbly, displeased at having been stuck in there, and Jul started soothing him, distractedly answering, “Oh sure, I’m technically Duchess of a land that does not exist anymore, and Cara is next in line for the title.” 

Din pivoted to Cara, flabbergasted. This whole time, he had had a _duchess_ on board? His closest friend and his love interest both were _Alderaan nobility_?! 

With a shrug, Cara added, “The Organa thing was inflated, but our parents knew each other. We spoke to Leia Organa, hmm, a couple of times at functions?” 

Jul confirmed with a nod, “I did play cubes with her at the Cycle Celebration when we were little.” 

“The best lies are based on truth,” commented Paz.

She agreed and both cousins looked to Din, waiting for his reaction. 

“Yaj is going to laugh herself sick,” he sighed. 


	37. Din Djarin

In the morning, Din woke up alone. Forgoing the armor, he slipped his helmet on and opened the cabin door: Jul was preparing breakfast while Paz fed the kid. Paz was speaking to the kid in Mando’a, explaining to him that the purée Jul had prepared for him contained meat, and that he would like it if he gave it a try. Pausing in her cooking, Jul turned to Paz. Leaning over his shoulder, she ran her hand down one fuzzy ear, enjoining Peapod to listen to Paz. Maybe it was the Force allowing her to get her meaning across, or maybe the child was getting hungry enough: the next time Paz tried to feed him a spoonful, he gobbled it up.

Feeling warm, Din joined them. The Crest, for all that he had always loved it, had never felt like home as it did now. He mumbled a hello and was handed a bowl of porridge, spiced exactly to his taste, to slurp through a large straw. Between Paz’s arms, the bowl of purée, its accompanying mess, and the kid himself seated on it, there wasn’t much space on the small table. Din took the other chair but kept the bowl propped on his knee.

He basked.

He was doing cleanup while Jul ate when Cara emerged, disheveled but looking well rested. She made her way over, stealing a bite out of Jul’s bowl and asking, “Morning everybody. Where to, today?”

Din’s good mood dissipated as they talked about the next stop on their tour, wondering if it would be as derelict as the last three temples. Done with first meal, they moved to the cockpit with their hot beverages - tea for everybody but Cara, who drank caf only. Din sat in the pilot’s chair and the others crowded around him, even Peapod perched on Paz’s arm. Din put up the holomap, pointing to their current route. He was highlighting a few other potential spots of interest in the same area when a system caught his attention. He had been there before, hadn’t he? Zooming on the system, he spotted a familiar planet.

“Hmm, I don’t remember anything about that system in our notes,” said Jul, waking him up from his contemplation.

“No, no, just… somebody I know lives there. A metalsmith.”

Paz immediately asked, “Would that acquaintance be able to forge me replacement plates?”

Between the ploy to hide the Covert’s evacuation on Nevarro and his mining misfortune, Paz was missing a vambrace and a cuisse, and looked a bit patchy on the field.

“I could use a new knife,” Jul contributed, “I got my current one cheap and I’m tired of having to hone it every time I need it.”

Din, who had seen her debone a tip-yip in under a minute a couple days before, could attest to the exacting sharpness she required of her blades.

“New knives sound good to me too,” contributed Cara with a savage grin.

“Detour approved,” concluded Din, minimizing the map and moving his cup to between his thighs so he could use both hands on the controls, getting started on their change of course.

“So that friend of yours,” started Cara, “are they a friend or a _friend_ friend?”

The teasing tone was clear enough, but Din played dumb, humming a vague yes, absorbing himself into the calculation.

“That means _friend_ friend,” whispered Paz in a loud aside.

In an equally theatrical whisper, Cara noted, “I can’t believe it! We should call him Din Juan.”

With a sigh, Din turned around in his seat, crossing his arms and reclining in his chair.

“I’ve been chasing bounties across the Galaxy, alone, since I was nineteen. You really expected me to never have slept with anybody?”

"Honestly, I try not to think about you naked, but my guess would have been that you kept that in-between Mandalorians too.”

Cara’s tone had moved from teasing to more legitimately curious. She’d kept silent, but a quick glance also confirmed Jul was listening attentively, and so Din explained, “Fifteen years ago, you would have been right. But traveling comes with learning about many cultures. Sometimes even yours.”

Din thought back to discovering there had been a time Mandalorians showed their faces, to each other, sometimes even to _aruetiise_ (non-Mandalorians). It had taken him years to accept that for the truth, and years again to make his peace with his own upbringing, and his choice of a more difficult Way.

“Some of my forebears removed their helmets in public,” Paz chimed in.

Jul and Cara’s gasps of surprise were satisfying.

“But... how... I thought…” sputtered Jul.

“After the destruction of Mandalore and our diaspora, hiding our faces to preserve secrecy became part of our Way.”

Din nodded to confirm Paz’s words, and added, “Our generation… was not necessarily _informed_ of the fact that our Way was not the _only_ Way.”

Din wasn’t sure what feelings Jul could sense from Paz and him, but she was frowning. Slowly, she asked, “So even… even between you two… you’ve never seen each other’s face?”

They shook their heads, and Cara’s jaw dropped.

“Don’t tell me you sleep with the helmets on?!”

“We don’t. Total darkness is a loophole,” patiently explained Paz.

“We bend the rules, a bit,” admitted Din.

“What other kind of _bending_ , have you guys been doing?” asked Cara.

The conversation was veering into a territory Din was not entirely comfortable with, especially with Jul standing right there, and he regretted not having taken a bit more time for talking that night at the lake. Now, they were all piled on top of each other with little privacy, and the fragile whatever-it-was between Jul and him had no space to grow. Thankfully, the kid saved him by gurgling some consonants, distracting the whole group.

“Time for second breakfast, I guess,” sighed Jul before opening her arms for Paz to hand him over.

Instead, he led the way into the galley, smoothly transitioning to a much safer talk of traditional Mandalorian foods versus what they had been able to prepare in the Nevarro sewers.

“Did I goof?” asked Cara in a low voice, watching them go.

“I hope not,” answered Din sincerely.

Cara sat down in a free chair, curling her legs under her, hands wrapped around her mug.

“My cousin can be pretty astute when it comes to people, you might have noticed. She wouldn’t have approached you if she thought you were in a monogamous relationship.”

Din stayed silent, unsure where Cara was going. Sighing, Cara expounded, “That said, she’s not a literal mind reader either. A few clear words might help.”

“I don’t know that I have those.”

“Then you gotta figure it out, Din. Because if you’re in just for fun, she needs to know now.”

Din’s immediate gut reaction was outrage, which was informative on its own. Struggling to put words on the churn in his gut he was feeling more and more frequently in Jul’s presence, he admitted, “I fell for her, Cara, but it doesn’t mean we are meant to be. This is… a lot. I used to see Paz once a month, if I was lucky. The rest of the time, I was alone on the Crest or hunting. Now I’ve got a foundling, my best friend, my _vod_ , and my crush with me at all times.”

Nodding her head, Cara confirmed, “It’s a lot. It might be easier soon.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’ve been traveling a while. I’ve gotta make it back to Nevarro at some point, or lose my job. Karga is a nice boss, but he’s got limits.”

“Cara…”

“I know, I’ve got a spot here with you as needed. But I’ve put some thoughts into it. You need the space, the three of you, to figure things out.”

“That’s really not…”

She raised a hand to stop his protests.

“I’m a liability too. Jul saved the day with the New Republic, but the truth is, you’ve got enough firepower now with Paz, and I don’t want to endanger your mission, or the kid. The green womp rat really grew on me.”

Those all felt like excuses to Din, and he was getting ready to contradict them one by one when Cara added, “I’ll stick around for another temple, but after that I need to go back to Nevarro and settle down. I’m not getting any younger, and seeing you all three being lovey-dovey reminds me that, once upon a time, I wanted a home and somebody to share it with.”

The words, wistful, rang truer than all her past excuses combined, and Din nodded. Turning back to his console and the calculations that awaited him there, he said softly, “You have spoken.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter we'll meet one more of Din's Past Lovers, the character from the oneshot [_Birds Save Their Best Songs for Dawn_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26817691). 


	38. Paz Vizsla

After a pit stop for fuel and a couple more hours in hyperspace, we arrive at that detour planet at around lunchtime. It’s an unremarkable arid planet, but I’m pretty sure I remember the metalsmith Din mentioned, a guy raised as a Mandalorian who did not swear the Creed. The memory is clear not only because of Din’s titillating tale of blindfolds and ropes, but also because of the rarity of meeting people who knew Mandalorian culture.

Of course, it’s barely morning when we land, and so our internal clocks get fucked up again. The green child is the only delighted one, since he gets to rewind his meal tracking to breakfast. His head is sticking out of Jul’s pack, and he looks famished, so I feed him some dried fruit as we walk. Jul pretends she doesn’t notice, but she slows down enough to make it easy for me to hand the fruit pieces.

It’s not market day, we learn at the nearby cantina, where the regulars are partaking in a cup of caf before the day starts, or are ending a very long night. When Din enquires about the metalsmith, he gets confirmation that the man still lives in the village. The bar droid’s directions are so precise they become confusing, but Din seems to remember the path well enough, and the sun is still rising by the time we stop in front of a modest house.

“Might be too early to barge in,” notes Cara, pointing to the curtains pulled closed.

“Are you looking for Parjai?”

It’s a tall Weequay with red leathery skin and gold eyes. She is buff, though her voice tells me she is young, maybe even a teenager still.

“We are,” confirms Din, “but it might be too early to…”

The woman strides to the door, slams it open, and shouts, “Time to get up, Master! We have guests. Maybe family!”

A grumble comes back from inside, “Naharb! How many times… What do you mean family?”

“Beloved _goran_ (metalsmith), I apologize for your inability to wake up early. I mean two dudes in _beskar’gam_ (Mandalorian armor).”

The Mando’a words in the Weequay’s mouth are jarring, but at least it means we’re in the right place. There’s shuffling from the inside, and a man appears at the door. He’s got a few years on me, and grey streaking his vibrant red hair and beard. He is terribly handsome, frumpy tunic and sleepy eyes, and that story of Din makes a lot more sense. His mouth falls open when he spots us, but eventually he says, “ _Olarom, verde_ (welcome soldiers).”

Din walks to the door, a credit in hand, but before he can answer the greeting, the smith, straightens up, “Din?”

Din nods, and Parjai’s smile could power a solar farm.

“My friend, look at you! Congratulations on the armor!”

“Aya, another victim of the Din Djarin’s charm,” comments Cara, amused.

Jul shakes her laugh with a huff, “Hard to resent them, especially when the sun is hitting just right.”

I stay silent but I have to agree: sunrise is kind to Din’s unpainted armor, making him reflect soft pinks and oranges.

“And you brought friends, please, come on in. Naharb, some tea please?”

The smith hushers us inside, and noticing there are not quite enough chairs, grabs some pillows from the bed to complement. Not trusting the chairs, I elect to sit on the floor, and Jul joins me there, propping her pack on the floor. The kid immediately pops up, wiggling until I pull him out, and makes a beeline for the kitchen.

Din goes to stand and make chase, but Parjai gestures for him to sit.

“My apprentice will find something to feed your child, unless he has a specific diet?”

Cara snorts and Jul answers, “He’s not too fond of greens, but no allergy we’ve noticed.”

“Naharb…”

“I heard, Master, we have fresh fruits from yesterday’s market.”

“Perfect!” approves Jul.

We do some more small talk and exchange niceties until the Weequay joins us with the tea and sits with us. She also brings a tray of freshly cut fruit, and Peapod follows. Once we are all set with cups and straws, Parjai gets to business.

“So, Din, what owes me this delightful visit?”

“I’ve been tasked with bringing this Child back to his family. We have some leads, but we require weapons and repairs.”

Parjai nods, “The Whistling Birds?”

Leaning over the food and tea service, Din hands the smith a single credit. The man accepts it with a smile, and reads aloud, “Good for a gift of Din Djarin’s choice, to be redeemed at the workshop of Parjai Wren.”

The name makes me tick, but before I can say anything, Din declares, “The rest, we’ll pay for.”

The smith turns to me, “I don’t have beskar, but I can make you durasteel pieces.”

“This is acceptable. I am Paz Vizsla.”

As I expected, the name causes a reaction.

“I guess we would have been of the same clan, had I sworn the Creed.”

The man offers his hand and we shake, the Mandolarian way.

“What about you? Do you need anything?” he asks, turning to Jul and Cara.

“A knife,” they both answer at once, causing the smith to chuckle.

“Mine is for cooking,” clarifies Jul.

“Mine will probably stab people more often than game,” admits Cara with an apologetic grin.

From the corner of my eye, I see the teenage Weequay make dreamy eyes in her direction, and I discreetly elbow Jul, leaning close to whisper, “Looks like Cara’s charm is winning this round.”

The woman chooses that moment to brush her loose hair away from her face, cup in the other, muscles flexing, and the Weequay sighs. Jul and I are giggling like teenagers ourselves when the kid makes a dive for the fruit, bowling over the teapot and pouring boiling liquid everywhere.

Controlled chaos ensues, Din apologizing for ruining the rug as Jul uses her jacket to mop up the tea. I soothes the kid, placing the foot he burned in a bowl of water Parjai procures, and fruit in his mouth to distract him from crying. Naharb and Cara are picking up the cups, pot, bowls, and soaked pieces of fruit.

Once the rug has been laid outside to dry, Parjai announces that the forging will take some time. He has the Whistling Birds ready, and a selection of knives for the cousins to pick from, but my vambrace and cuisse will need some work. Jul immediately offers to cook lunch and dinner as part of our payment, and once I’ve been measured, we head for the town center leaving Din and Cara to peruse the knives Naharb is retriving from storage for them.

Since today is not market day, we end up having to knock on several people’s doors, and even take a walk to a nearby farm. The kid, fussy after his misadventure, gets increasingly cranky. By the third time he tries to throw himself out of her pack, I grab him and carry him on my hip. We haven’t gone a few steps that he somehow manages to take a nibble at my wrist where my glove doesn’t meet my undersuit. I almost drop the rascal.

“What is up with you today!” I exclaim.

To Jul, I add, scandalised, “He bit me!”

“He doesn’t like being away from Din,” explains Jul, reaching for him.

I pass him over, but despite her soothing, he barely settles. Her stride grows increasingly quick and tense, and I am relieved when the forge comes back into view, the chimney now churning smoke into the sky.

When we enter, the master and the apprentice are hard at work, Parjai talking to Naharb in a weird mix of Basic and Mando’a - it seems like he does not know the Basic vocabulary for the tools of the forge and some of the processes. Din is seated on the floor, under a window, cleaning his Amban rifle, and Jul hurries to him, handing a wriggly Peapod over. At his surprised oof, she states, “He wants his dad.”

Din looks down, smoothing naked fingers over soft ears, “I’m sorry, little one, I’m looking.”

Jul glances over at me for help, and I shrug. Din can be a bit dense at times.

“She means you, _dik’ut_ (moron),” I say.

Din starts, and looks up at us. Before he can respond, Jul points at the kid, “Look.”

Peapod has crawled his way up Din’s shoulder, and is jamming his head under the helmet’s edge, snuffling in Din’s neck. It’s probably ticklish, but Din just tilts his head, moving so they both are more comfortable, and calming the child with slow passes of his fingers, from the point of one ear to the other.

When I turn to Jul, unable to bear more cuteness, I witness the tension in her body release. She smiles softly, just for herself, and I’m reminded why Din loves her. She turns to me, catching my gaze through the visor.

“He’s going to fall asleep in about two minutes.”

“Which one?” I joke, feebly.

“Maybe both,” she admits.

She moves on to the small kitchen, near the forge, and there’s no spare space for me to help her, not with the two smiths at work. Instead, I wander over to Din and sit at his side.

“Where’s Cara?”

Din shrugs his free shoulder.

“Taking a walk.”

“She found a knife?”

“Two.”

“She’s going to ruin you.”

“One is a gift from Naharb.”

I whistle, “The Weequay girl goes fast.”

“Cara offered to spar with the knives.”

“Does Naharb realize what she’s in for?”

“Does Cara?”

“Good point.”

Din turns his head to look at the teenager, who is working hard by her master’s side, joking all the while. We watch as she sasses Parjai in a way that would have never flown at the Covert.

“Were we ever that young?” I wonder out loud.

“There’s a cake incident that says yes,” teases Din.

The memory warms me, and I slide down the wall until I can lean my helmet on top of Din’s head.

“I seem to remember it worked out quite alright for me.”

“For the both of us, really.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The cake incident Din alludes is that of the oneshot [_Sweet Like Honey_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26921950).


	39. Cara Dune

When Cara comes back from testing her knives on some unsuspecting trees, her cousin is elbows deep in bread dough. The smack of the dough hitting the table is an amusing counterpoint to that of the hammer on the anvil. Despite the ruckus, the two Mandos are snoozing in the corner, piled on top of each other, Din covering the kid with a protective hand even in slumber. 

“Blah, how can so much beskar be so cute, this is disgusting,” complains Cara as she approaches Jul. 

The cook lifts her head and her face goes gooey as she spots the scene. She sighs, and whispers for Cara’s ears only, “They look good together.” 

She sounds sad, and Cara frowns. 

“Whatever you’re thinking, don’t. If Paz minded your… courting, he would have said something.” 

Jul smacks the dough down a bit more viciously than strictly necessary, in Cara’s opinion, but her voice is low when she says, “It’s not that. It’s more like I wish I had that kind of relationship with somebody. They’ve been together what, 20 years?”

Cara sighs, “We can’t all have teenage sweethearts. That’s why you should give it a go, with Din and Paz, and see in a few years.”

“I guess so… Wait, who?”

Cara looks at her cousin, confused. 

“Aren’t you starting something with Din?”

Whispering now and looking panicked, Jul answers, “Well, yes, but what do you mean, with Paz?”

Cara points to the still sleeping Mandalorians.

“They are a bit of a set, I thought we were just discussing that. Plus the kid too.”

Jul looks a bit faint now, and puts the dough away, leaving it on the forge’s ledge, before mechanically gathering ingredients for a tomato sauce of some kind. 

“Elle?”

Shaking herself out of it, Jul looks at Cara, “I hadn’t thought of it like that. When you and Paz…”

“That was just physical, it’s different.” 

“Huh.” 

Sensing her cousin needs to do some thinking, and maybe should not be cutting anything with sharp knives while distracted, Cara gently leads her to the work bench where Naharb has prepared a number of blades for her review. 

“Here, do some shopping, I’ll go and chop those tomatoes for you.” 

Jul lets her go with only a few instructions, proof that she needs the break. She has been very possessive of her role onboard as the one who feeds them. While it is probably for the best, Cara can at least manage a tomato sauce, and so gets started with the process, keeping an eye on Jul until Parjai joins her and looks at options with her, leaving his apprentice to finish the tempering of Paz’s vambrace. 

The Weequay has a crush on Cara, she’s aware of that. Once the sauce is simmering and the durasteel cooling, Cara and Naharb head to the courtyard to try out the knives Cara just got. The shock trooper is planning on abstaining from her usually flirtatious sparring style, and on going easy on the girl. She shouldn’t have bothered: once Naharb has the knife well in hand, the awkward teenager is suddenly all fluidity and strength. She shows no mercy. Of course, that’s the moment that the Mandalorians choose to rise and come spectate. If you add Parjai, Jul, and a handful of gawkers from surrounding houses, they have a full audience. 

Cara is a kriffing warrior, she shouldn’t have so much trouble beating this teen! Cara is more experienced, with more techniques at her disposal, but being unable to pull a blaster out or hit really hard is hindering her. The Weequay has the advantage of youth and height, and the few moves she knows she is surgically precise with. Cara eyes Parjai, who’s smiling proudly and asks between two bouts, “Parjai, you were raised Mando, heh. Been teaching the art to outsiders?”

“I like to keep sharp and Naharb is a good student.” 

Cara eventually overpowers the girl with a mix of quick thinking and superior muscle mass, to the applause of the crowd and Paz’s mocking. 

“I didn’t know I needed to be a teen for you to go soft on me, Cara.” 

Taking advantage of his as-of-yet incomplete armor, Cara wacks him on the arm on her way back in. The large Mandalorian’s yelp is satisfying. The verbal sparring continues as the group moves back inside and the onlookers disperse, stopping only when Jul starts slinging pizzas out of the forge. They arrange a space to dine on the floor as they did for tea earlier. The lack of a separate room for the Mandalorians to eat means that they are reduced to folding tiny pieces of hot tomato bread and shoving them under the edge of their helmets. 

“So, you never remove them in front of others? I thought friends were okay,” remarks Naharb, with all the finesse of noisy teenagers everywhere. 

Parjai grabs his apprentice’s arm and apologizes, “I have not explained to my apprentice some of the, ha, subtleties of the Creed.” 

Din says nothing, and looks quite stiff, but Paz does not have his qualms. 

“Well, the girl has a point. I’m a Vizsla and you’re a Wren, so we would be of the same clan, had you sworn the Creed.” 

Parjai releases his apprentice’s arm and cocks his head looking at Paz. 

“Really?” he says, and his voice is carefully neutral, “I rather thought that clan allegiances did not matter so much to the Children of the Watch when it came to showing one’s face.” 

Paz looks to Din, who finally breaks his silence, “Only the Way matters.” 

Parjai shakes his head and, to Naharb, explains, “Theirs is a Way even more strict than the one I decided not to follow.” 

“So are they Dea…”

Parjai interrupts the girl, “Let’s not sour the mood with some pre-Purge politics. At this point, I’m just glad to see beskar forged and worn the right way.” 

Their hosts glances at the altar, and the Weequay slumps.

“Sorry, master.” 

To her, that painful, lived history must feel exciting and foreign, thinks Cara, trying to think of a way to change the subject. Jul beats her to it. 

“Naharb, If you’re curious about Mandalorians, there are books I can give you.”

“Really?” 

Even Parjai perks up as Jul gets up and retrieves a datapad from her pack. 

“Here, I can send you those. It’s romance, I hope you like that genre.”

“Jul…” warns Din.

“Romance?” squeaks the girl, “Is it… steamy?”

Her red skin makes it hard to tell if she is blushing, but Cara gets the impression she is. Parjai chuckles and says, “I won’t tell your parents, but only if you lend them to me.” 

The apprentice is now clearly embarrassed, “Maaaster,” she whines.

With a large smile now, Jul hands her datapad to the teenager, “It’s not graphic, Naharb, you’ll be fine. Plus, these guys consulted for the author, so you know most of it is true when it comes to Mandalorian culture.” 

The shock on Parjai’s face is comical. 

“You… Two Children of the Watch… consulted for a romance book?!”

With what Cara has learn to recognize as false bravado, Din leans back on his hands and says, “A whole series, actually.” 

Parjai laughs outright, “Goodness, I look forward to reading it now.” 

Shaking his head, he crouches and gathers dishes before heading to the kitchen, adding, “There’s hope for a Mandalorian reconciliation yet, then.” 

The conversation moves on to other topics and the Mandalorians relax. Jul pops grain on the forge for dessert, to the kid’s delight. After a close call chasing the fun popping sound a bit too close to the fire, Cara carries him to a safe distance. Alternating between her mouth and the terror’s, she eats the fluffy treat while watching Parjai check Paz’s pieces for fit. They did good work, and the smith and his apprentice can then start the meticulous process of wiring and adding the supplementary systems to the armor. Paz elects to get a grappling line and a repulsor for the vambrace. The cuisse is a more passive built, so Naharb gets to try her hand at the circuitry, linking the plate to the rest of the armor’s cooling and heating systems. 

It’s late at night, after a second and third round of tea, long after the kid burrowed in some blankets, that the work is over. It’s almost time for goodbyes when Cara remembers. 

“Elle, did you ever pick a knife for yourself?” 

Jul, who’s lifting pillows in search of Peapod, answers distractedly. 

“Sure. I paid for it already.” 

She gently extracts a snoring child out of under a knitted throw. He blinks a couple times but does not truly wake up as she places him in her pack. Cara asks to see the blade and Jul hands her an unassuming paring knife. The blade is barely as long as Cara’s index finger. Her cousin laughs softly when she sees Cara’s face. 

“Don’t judge a knife on its size, Tia. I can peel vegetables as well as do surgery with a blade that thin and sharp.” 

Handing her back the knife, Cara sighs, “Let’s hope for the former. I don’t want to be the test subject of your peeling accuracy.” 

They thank the master and his apprentice, and bid them goodbye before heading back to the Crest. Night has fully fallen, and the town is dark, but there isn’t much an ex-shock trooper fears when she walks at night with her cousin at her right and two Mandalorians at their back.


	40. Cara Dune

To avoid Empire remnants and New Republic strongholds both, they head to the Pelgrin sector next. They’ve marked two points of interest there, and spirits are high again that at least one of the locations will yield clues. The Razor Crest crew first lands on Draay 2, a small, pleasantly temperate moon inhabited by Humans and Duros both. The locals readily lead them to the temple, which they call the True Covenant. It has been abandoned for centuries, they say, and so the agricultural cooperative uses it to store the harvest’s surplus. They are shown a few baubles and some lovely bas-reliefs, which, while not very informative, feel like a success. 

Back at the village’s cantina, they are comparing notes on their next stop, something called the Sky Temple of Karsol, when a Duros approaches them, her flight-suit marking her as a traveler amongst the linen-clad locals. 

“Hi, I’m Mezerel Vong. I overheard you talking about the Sky Temple.”

Din and Paz lift their heads to stare at her, but she seems oblivious to the tension, pulling up a chair and sitting next to Cara. 

“I heard you were at the Covenant earlier, so I’m guessing it’s Force vergences you’re looking for.”

Cara looks at Din, who glances at Paz, who tilts his head to Jul, who shrugs. Din says in his gruffest voice, “And what if we are?”

The Duros, Mezerel, rubs her hands together, “You can skip Sakuub and the Sky Temple altogether. It’s a big tourist trap at this point, there’s nothing left there of interest, and the Force lines have moved too.”

“Would you care to explain how it is you know so?” asks Paz, and Mezerel rubs her bald blue head, contrite when she says, “Oh, I guess only these two can tell,” and she points at Jul and the child. 

The kid coos and waves back. Jul squints and after a second, sighs, “You’re Force-sensitive.” 

“Sure am.”

“I didn’t feel you at first.” 

“I shield. The kid however…” 

The Duros makes a gesture like an explosion. 

“You… shield?” asks Jul. 

“Ah. You’re untrained too. I guess that’s why you’re looking for the Jedi.”

“You know the Jedi.” 

It’s Din, interrupting with a stern tone. The Duros lifts her hands in a show of peace.

“I know of them, same as you I’d wager. But they are not the only ones who learned to channel the Force.” 

This time it’s Paz, straightening up in his chair and leaning forward imposingly, who intervenes, “We were led to believe that the _darjetii_ , the Sith, were even worse than the _jetii_.” 

Cara thinks the Duros should start sweating at that point, two Mandalorians asking her questions, but instead she excitedly claps the hands she had in the air.

“Well, good news! There are more Force-users out there who are neither Jedis nor Siths, and they don’t bother with the whole Good versus Evil thing. I always thought the Jedi were a bit righteous you know. Myself, I’m self-trained, from what I’ve gleaned from my travels.”

Before any of them can interrupt, the Duros makes some space on the table, pushing bowls so she can slap down her holopad. 

“Now, I get nothing but good vibes from you people.” 

Turning to Paz, who is crossing his arms and is glowering from all his height, even seated, she winks, “Even you.”

Pushing a button on her pad, she brings up a star map of the area. 

“Now, if you’re beginners, you’ll want to stop on Pelgrin itself. I reckon it’s been 40 years or so since the Oracle was destroyed, but the energy is still there. Plus get yourself some of that Dieuw tree bark, it’s great as a Force-vector, like the kyber crystals the Jedi use in their sabers.” 

At this point, Jul has taken her datapad out and is taking frantic notes. 

“What are you using the bark for?” she interrupts. 

Mezerel pulls out a pendant out of her suit, “I haven’t fully figured it out yet, but it kind of drinks Force from you when you wear it, and you can pull it out if you need it again.”

One hand on the pendant, Mezerel glances around. Cara follows her gaze: it’s midday in the cantina, they are almost the only customers, and they are in a dark corner. Judging they are secure enough, the Duros lifts their bowls off the table, and has them spin slowly a full round before letting them down again. 

“Now, telekinesis isn’t my strong suit, I’m much better at shields, mental and physical, but with this little battery I can do a couple nifty things.” 

Jul makes a careful note, then manipulates the star chart to zoom in on some of the highlighted locations. 

“Have you gone to Ledeve and Vorgas Vas?” 

“They are on my list, but not yet. Are they worth it?” 

“Absolutely not,” Cara jumps in. 

Jul adds a few details about each spot they have already visited, and Mezerel nods sagely and annotates her chart. Din makes a gesture and the Duros invites him to take control of the map. 

“What about these two?” 

He is pointing at the Vorzyd and Spadja Sectors in the Outer Rim. 

“Oh, you’ve got to go to the Dawn Temple on Spintir. Fantastic energy there, very healing, even if the temple itself is quite remote. There’s an excellent hand pie shop in the one town with a fuel station too.”

She zooms on the sector and gives some more details on the area and the temple itself, including a hidden platform to land their ship on that is invisible until you come right to it.

“This will save you the five-hour mountain hike I endured, only to see that platform when turning the last switchback.” 

Now both Jul and Din are taking notes, and Cara would laugh at their studious attitudes if she wasn’t so grateful that Duros ran into them. What is it those old books said? The Force works in mysterious ways? 

“What about the other place, in the Vorzyd sector?” prompts Din. 

“Oh no, I would avoid that one. There’s this vergence on Auratera, it gave me the heebie-jeebies. I’m not sure if it was a Sith temple or what, but there’s plenty of dark there.” 

The conversation progresses much in that vein, each side throwing names of sectors and planets, and Cara can feel both Din and Jul’s delight when they have locations in commun with the Duros. The shock trooper gives up around the time the three research nerds gush about wanting to visit something called the Martyrium of Frozen Tears in the Deep Core - Cara herself thinks some place with both ‘martyr’ and ‘tears’ in its name does _not_ sound like a good time. The kid is also getting bored, so she walks with him to the bar, propping him up on the counter as she asks for a second round of soup for everybody. She wouldn’t mind some more solid food, but Jul thinks it’s mean to eat when the Mandos can’t, so broth for everybody it is until they make it back to the ship. 

The new round of six bowls of soup proves a bit much for Cara to carry on her own, but Paz spots her issue and comes to the rescue. By the time he makes it to them, the womp rat has already drained most of his bowl, so he gets a refill before they even leave the counter. Good thing he’s potty-trained, thinks Cara as the kid waddles back to the table with his third bowl of broth. There’s a sloshing sound as he goes, and she’s not sure if it’s from the bowl or his stomach. 

“How long do you think they’ll be at it?” asks Cara. 

“Din can be surprisingly loquacious when the subject interests him. He might even break out some Durese, I think he knows some.” 

“How many languages does he speak anyway?” 

“I have lost track, I’ll admit. He says it passes the time on hyperspace hauls, but I believe he enjoys knowing when people are being disparaging to him or the Creed in cantinas.” 

“Does he learn the insults first?”

“Of course.” 

Thankfully, it turns out the other three are wrapping up their star map comparisons, and they clear up the table as the new bowls arrive. The conversation moves on to chit-chat about who everybody’s favorite planet is, and where to get the best food. Cara is surprised anew by how many places Jul has been to. Between her medic assignments and her wandering cooking days, she is well traveled. Of course, Cara’s own tally is nothing to sneer at, even if it leans more towards the remote and backwater, Sorgan included. Din, however, blows all of them out of the water, even if he readily admits that there are many planets where he’s only seen the spaceport and the seediest cantina around. 

As the afternoon progresses, it comes time to go their separate ways. Din covers the tab, and the Duros thanks him much more profusely than necessary. 

They walk together to the spaceport, and Mezerel stops by a small, one-person shuttle that looks barely big enough to have a fresher and a cot onboard. 

“Are you sure there is nothing we can give you as thanks?” asks Jul. 

The Duros looks a bit embarrassed, but after some needling, admits she could use some food, as she doesn’t have any credits that spend around those parts. It takes their cook only a few minutes to run to the Crest and come back with a pile of leftovers. Paz pretends to be distraught at the idea of not being able to eat a tenth helping of brioche. He’s so over the top the Duros is laughing by the time she accepts the parcels. She pops in and out of her ship, bringing with her a broken cylinder. 

“I was on Lothal a couple of months ago, and I found this. It’s one of those lightsabers, but it’s broken and missing its kyber crystal. It’s of no use to me, but maybe a couple of Mandalorians and two Force-users might have an idea what to do with it.” 

She hands Din the weapon, and he takes it with a deep bow. 

“Mezerel, thank you. _Ret'urcye mhi_ , maybe we’ll meet again.” 

“Well, you’ve got my contact now, so I sure hope so. May the Force be with you.”

And with one last wave, the Duros boards her ship.


	41. Paz Vizsla

After the fateful meeting with Mezerel Vong, our luck turns. On her good advice, we check out the ruins of the Oracle on Pelgrin, and harvest some magical tree bark Jul immediately starts experimenting with. Next, following the Corellian Run, we hit up Iktotch before bifurcating to Devaron. The Iktotch stop proves informative, as many of the local horned aliens are Force-sensitive. Jul almost has a heart attack when the spaceport official casually floats a flimsi landing form over to us. I’m personally more concerned about a civilization that still uses flimsi for their forms, but I guess it’s in our advantage to not have the Razor Crest in too many sliceable databases. Most people are pretty casual in their use of the Force though, and beyond some kids’ holovids on basic exercises, it seems like the more gifted people tend to leave the planet, and nobody has seen any _jetiise_ since the rise of the Empire. 

We are on Devaron, an hour into a jungle hike to some more ruins, when Din gets an emergency notification relayed from the Crest. After a quick debate, he and I jetpack our way back with the kid while the cousins turn around and start walking back. The message, when we get to it, is brief and to the point: the Covert needs us. I rush to secure the old Crest for takeoff and check on our fuel reserves as Din furiously calculates our route. When they arrive, out of breath from running part of the way back, I brief the rest of the crew, “We received a message from our Armorer. She has been assembling the Covert in a new location, but they are under attack from some creatures. They need help evacuating.”

It’s a credit to those two women’s excellent character that they don’t even question crossing half the galaxy to go rescue some strangers. Instead, Jul asks, “Any injured?” 

“The Armorer wouldn’t have decided to evacuate otherwise.” 

She nods and yells up at Din, “How long before we take off?” 

“Twenty minutes.” 

With a resolute expression, she turns to me, “Fly me to the apothecary. It’s the blue building in town.”

“Riding as a passenger…”

“Paz, we’re wasting time, do it.” 

She’s emptying her med pack to make some space, and the look on her face brokers no more arguments. I quickly shed some armor to lighten the load while Cara grabs us some credits from the secret compartment behind the vacc tube we are the only ones to know is not in use. 

Once Jul has her pack back on, we exit the hold and stand outside. I’ve picked up a few Mandalorians in my day, and flown them to safety, but none of them felt as squishy as Jul does as she hugs my neck and loops her legs around my waist, plastering herself to my cuirass. I try not to notice how nicely her buttocks fit in my hands as I further secure her to me, and take us up. I can’t help a chuckle when she yelps as we ascend, then yelps again as I lean into a more horizontal position on our way to the village. Despite how hard she is squeezing me, I can tell she is trembling, and I’m glad it only takes a couple of minutes to reach the town. The blue building and its mortar and pestle emblem is easy to spot, and I land us as delicately as I can in front of it. 

“Jul, you can detach now.” 

She finally opens her eyes and takes a deep breath, letting her legs drop to the ground. She is about as stable as a newborn fathier though, so I move my hands to her waist keeping her stable as she lets go of my neck. She takes another deep breath, and mutters, “Bandages, antiseptic, bacta, anti-venom.” 

Still a little wobbly she enters the shop and I follow, half concerned she’ll fall over, and half for the intimidation factor. We’ve quickly learned that having at least one Mandalorian along for errands tends to result in lower prices. The shopkeeper’s eyes bug out a bit when he spots us, but he’s quick to recover, and diligently gathers all the items Jul asks for. He doesn’t have enough bandages to her taste, but after some minimal haggling, she buys what he has. All in all, we are back outside in under ten minutes, Jul’s pack now full. 

“Back to the Crest?” 

I can see her steel herself, and she squares her shoulders as she answers, “Let’s do it.” 

We have a bit of time to spare, so I try to take it a little less fast, but she’s still a bit green around the edges by the time we are back to the ship. Thankfully, she has other things to think about and immediately starts shredding our spare sheets to make into more bandages. 

“Too bad your Armorer didn’t say what kind of creature they’re dealing with, I could try synthesizing the right antidote if it’s venomous.” 

I resolve to ask the Armorer and hope we get an answer on time. The trip is going to take two to three days, by Din’s rough estimate, and I don’t like that delay one bit.


	42. Din Djarin

Din worked hard to make their jumps as tight as possible, and the old Crest delivered: they would land on Draboon within 54 hours, with only one stop for fuel needed. On Jul’s request, he sent some questions to the Covert in order to be as ready as possible, and the information that came back to them was both bleak and, well, a little funny. 

It turned out that, in evacuating Nevarro, the Armorer had inadvertently transported rodents in some food crates. Left alone for a couple of months with plenty of grain, they had reproduced, and when she had settled on Draboon during the warm season, they had run amok and quickly proliferated further. The Armorer had not shared much details, but it seemed that, seeking warmth and food as winter had come, the weasels had started an all-out war for dominance over the caves the Mandalorians had been settling in. She’d concluded her transmission with the Mandalorian proverb “ _haatyc or'arue jate'shya ori'sol aru'ike nuhaatyc_ ” (better one big enemy that you can see than many small ones that you can't), which Din had taken to mean: hurry, things are dire. 

Silence fell over the Crest’s crew as they broke the atmosphere, nearing the coordinates sent by the Armorer. The peaceful landscape of mountains, covered in thick pine forests and dusted with snow, seemed to mock Din’s apprehension. He was nervous about the situation, of course, and the safety of his clanmates, but he was also cognizant that he was bringing two strangers along, one of which his best friend and the other his… well, his something. 

Cara meeting the Armorer had been one thing – a warrior recognizing another, and there hadn’t been much time for problematic conversations to take place anyway. Jul, a pacifist, meeting the whole Covert, some of them not so open-minded, was quite another. On top of that, Din felt guilty about even worrying about this when his fellow Mandalorians were in danger and needed rescuing. 

“Hey, Din?”

Jul’s voice pierced through his thoughts. He grunted to show he had heard. 

“It’s going to be okay. Start with a deep breath, then…” 

He followed her quiet instructions, acknowledging the anxiety and its source before letting it go. His worries would have to wait anyway: he had just spotted the clearing the coordinates matched, and two other ships were already waiting there. He landed the Crest closeby, the ship powering down with a grateful sigh. Jul was already climbing down the ladder, and they joined Paz, Clara, and Peapod in the hold. The kid was waiting next to Jul’s medic pack, clearly picking up on the fact that they were going on an expedition. 

“Can’t do this time, cutie,” explained Jul, “I need the space.”

Peapod’s ears drooped down as she picked him up and placed him in the floating pram, which they mostly used as his bed these days. She then put on her pack, and they were ready to go, Paz in his now full armor, Cara with even more knives than usual, and Jul in her green body armor and matching half helmet. 

Din lowered the ramp and they walked out of the Razor Crest. A group of Mandalorians was waiting for them, and Din recognized Ruusan and her teenage foundling Anwar, Karta and Sheem, married, and little Bertog, their 6-year old child. 

“ _Su cuy'gar, verde_ (hello, soldiers),” he saluted. 

A murmur of hellos came back. 

“Are we waiting for anybody else?” asked Din, going straight for business. 

After a moment of glances being exchanged, Ruusan stepped forward. She could be opinionated, but had a good head inside the bucket. 

“The three ships that had left to pick up more settlers are turning around, but they are several hours out. We can’t afford to wait.” 

She glanced back to the mouth of the cave, a short walk through the woods and up on the hillside. 

“What is the situation inside?” prompted Paz, and Karta was the one to answer him. 

“Twenty-two adults, seven kids. Six of the adults are injured, two of them will need to be carried out. They are out of ammunition, but together in a barricaded room. The fire rats have been slowly burning their way through the door, and it’s about the fall.”

Cara piped in, “They’re actively attacking? I’ve seen those weasels before on Nevarro, and their style is more about defending themselves, and fleeing.”

Karta shrugged, and said, “We were surprised too, they were fine on Nevarro. But it’s like they’re in a frenzy.” 

Projecting a holo of the caves from eir’s vambrace, Karta pointed out, “We have explosives, so we could probably tunnel our way into the chamber from the outside.” 

Din was thinking that it would neatly avoid the problem of the fire-breathing weasels in the tunnels, when Jul stepped closer to the map. 

“Are we sure the room they are in won't cave if the wall gets fragilized?”

“The tunnel would be too small to be an issue,” answered Karta.

“How small?” pushed Jul. 

Grumbling now, Karta gave her some options that ey judged would preserve the caves’ structural integrity. Jul listened attentively and concluded, “I think none of these will work. They would be too small to transport a stretcher through without causing distress.”

Din saw Karta stiffen, but Sheem was the one to turn to him and declare, “ _Beroya_ (bounty hunter), why are you letting this _aruetii_ (outsider, traitor) lead us into battle?” 

Din was too slow to answer: Paz beat him to the punch, literally. While Sheem got back up, bucket no doubt still ringing, Jul raised her hand and said, “Paz, easy. The question is justified. Tell me, among us here, who has led the most battlefield evacuations?” 

Sheem looked around for support, but while they all had been in plenty of skimirches, none of them was trained for that specific situation. When the silence had gone on long enough to turn awkward, Jul started again, “So, as I was saying, it’s less a matter of shortest distance and more one of most stability. If we have untreated burn wounds, we need to jostle the injured as little as possible, or we risk tearing off damaged skin and making it worse.” 

“So what do you recommend?” asked Karta, who had put a calming hand on eir wife’s shoulder. 

“Honestly? A frontal assault might do it. I’m assuming you’ve got fire extinguishers on your ships?” 

Having gotten nods back, Jul continued, pointing on the map, “The fire rats are focused on the door, right? We’ll sneak up on them, maybe detonate a couple grenades to scare them. Hopefully, by the time they gather their wits, we’ll be on our way. We can cover our retreat with a mix of fire extinguisher and more grenades.” 

Reassured that Karta would get to use eir explosives, Sheem backed down. They started discussing details, and Din smiled under his bucket. By not backing down, and offering a more flamboyant plan instead, Jul had proved she had _mandokar,_ a unique Mandalorian virtue blending aggression, tenacity, loyalty, and a lust for life. Din was also pleased, if a bit surprised, by Paz’s protectiveness. He had feared that his interest in Jul would predispose Paz against her, since he had expressed jealousy a couple of times, but instead they were becoming friends. Now, if they could all survive fighting enraged fire weasels, maybe he would finally have a minute to take Jul aside and discuss their relationship more. Maybe even get her somewhere dark and kiss her like he had been wanting to. 

Shaking himself out of his inappropriate daydreaming, Din walked to Jul, who was kneeling by her pack, rearranging it now that they knew what to expect. He crouched down to her height and asked, “What about Peapod?”

Checking nobody was listening to them, Jul whispered, “I thought he’d better stick with me, in case we need a last resort.”

They had discussed the kid’s fire trick on the way over and Din nodded.

“Careful with overexhaustion. The both of you.” 

Smiling, Jul turned her gaze to him and Din felt a fondness that wasn’t his warm his body.

“We’ll be careful,” she answered, and the heat faded as she turned away. 

“Jul… what…Was that you?” 

She did not meet his gaze again as she murmured, even quieter, “Mezerel’s shielding can be… reversed.” 

Din had a thousand questions, but Paz was calling everybody to assemble. Anwar, all of twelve, had conceded to staying at the ships to guard Bertog. Jul had smoothed the process by asking both kids to work on transforming the Crest’s hold into a med tent. The marching order had Paz and Ruusan opening the way, Sheem and Karta on the flanks, Jul and the pram in the middle, and Cara and Din closing the formation. 

Having informed the trapped Mandalorians that they were on their way, Paz started walking. The forest was quiet, as were the first few meters into the cave. The first hint that something was amiss was smoke swirling slowly on the ceiling, becoming progressively denser until the grey tendrils started reflecting the flickering light of a large fire in the distance. Sound came next, an always-renewed hissing, and the roar of the flames splashing against the wood. They slowed as they came up to the last bend in the tunnel, having only encountered a couple of the creatures, which Ruusan had silently dispatched with darts. Being in the back, Din could not see what was going on past the corner, but he sure heard it when the grenades Paz lobbed exploded. 

Suddenly, it was pandemonium. Fiery beasts streamed away from the explosion, spitting fire at everything that moved, including each other, in their panic. The door creaked, further weakened by the explosion, and fell with a resounding bang. 

“ _Viinir_ (run)!” 

The Armorer’s voice rang over the rats’ squeaks and flames, and, flat against the wall of the tunnels, Din let most of the Covert hurry past, healthy adults and kids carrying bags and even pushing a few hovercrates. Sheem and Karta followed with two of the extinguishers to protect their retreat, while Cara, Ruusan, Paz, Jul, and Din pushed into the room. Half a dozen injured Mandalorians were left. The Armorer was there also, her fur singed, a passed out Mandalorian in her arms. Paz took another of the injured in his, cradling them as the armor allowed, while Cara and Ruusan grabbed each one end of a stretcher and lifted. The rest of the injured were more mobile, and Din threw one his spare blaster, wrapping an arm around the waist of another. A shout of “go!” was all Jul needed to get them started back down the tunnel. Unencumbered, the kid’s pram by her side, she took last position, ruthlessly covering every weasel she saw following them with a precise dash of foamy fire suppressant. They were halfway back to the tunnel’s entrance when the Armorer, who was leading them out, let out a yell of pain. 

Hurrying as he could, Din saw her turn her back on three or four weasels as they vomited fire, managing to protect her charge, but getting her legs and lower back sprayed in the process. Din shot at the weasels, but they dodged, hissing more fire instead, the Armorer letting out another cry of pain. 

“Kriffing fuck!” 

That was Jul, running past them and finishing her fire extinguisher on two of the rodents. The other two turned to her, snarling, and Din distantly heard both Paz and himself yell her name. But Jul was already raising a hand and, as the liquid the rats were spitting started igniting she flung them and the flames both out of the way. 

“Keep going!” she shouted, and they obeyed, hurrying past as Jul closed the distance between her and a still standing, but trembling Armorer. 

Din turned his head back and saw Jul slip a hand on the Armorer’s bare skin and, with a shudder, she started walking again. He then didn’t have the luxury to dawdle, as the Mandalorian he was helping was getting heavier with every step, the adrenaline no doubt fading as the light at the end of the tunnel grew. The few meters between the cave’s entrance and the ships, despite being downhill, now felt like kilometers, and Din was grateful when a Mandalorian in dark red armor (Siirta, or was it Umyee?) met him halfway and took over. Turning around, he spotted the Armorer and Jul, more Mandalorians helping them. The empty stretcher had made its way back, and Paz was helping the Armorer settle the Mandalorian she was carrying in it, two other people lifting it and keeping it stable throughout. The stretcher marched past Din, and he went back uphill to join the Armorer, Paz, and Jul. 

“...in shock,” was saying Jul, “and I don’t want to inject you with more adrenaline.” 

To Din and Paz’s benefit, she added: 

“I already pushed her body to produce a second rush earlier, and more is not advised.”

The Armorer’s _kute_ (undersuit) was a terrible mix of melted and burned between the armor plates, and Din only hoped her armor had protected the rest.

“Paz, would you be able to carry her?” 

Din looked at Paz, and Paz looked back at him. How to tell Jul a Mandalorian simply could not carry their _alor_ (leader) like a babe, injury or not? 

“Oh, kriff you,” exploded Jul when she caught on to their reluctance, “I’ll do it myself.”

Slipping a piece of tree bark out of her breast pocket, she placed it between her teeth and raised both hands. The Armorer barely reacted as her feet slowly rose from the ground and Jul started walking, pushing her gently in front of her, heading down the slope. Din looked to Paz again and the large Mandalorian shrugged. Shrugging back, Din followed. They would deal with the fallout as needed. 

The clearing was utterly silent as they crossed it, the Armorer still floating ahead of Jul’s hands. As they approached the Crest’s open ramp, Jul waved her fingers, a frown of concentration on her face, and the _alor_ ’s armour and forging apron slowly came undone, ties slipping free, plates falling to the ground. A murmur of panic rose, but Jul spit the piece of bark she was biting and shouted, “I won’t remove her helm, I’m not an idiot.” 

Once the Armorer was down to the remnants of her kute, Jul rotated her hands, and the Armorer’s body pivoted until it laid flat, face down. Din was starting to see the strain in Jul’s trembling arms and in the sweat dripping at her temples. With one last push, Jul entered the Crest and laid the Armorer to rest on a cot. 

Din was hurrying towards the Crest and Jul stepped back out, wiping her brow. She bent to pick up the piece of bark, and told the assembled crowd, “Send me everybody who’s injured. We’re doing triage now.” 

She disappeared back into the Crest, calling to pram to follow her, and Din came along. Jul was sitting at the corner of the cot, contemplating the Armorer’s legs. 

“Anything I can do to help?” Din asked. 

Jul rubbed her eyes. 

“Inject _me_ with adrenaline?” 

Din just looked at her and she grimaced.

“Ok, that wasn’t very funny. I need a couple pairs of steady hands suited to delicate work.”

People were starting to arrive and Jul took a deep breath, let it out like a big sigh, and got back up. She gestured for people to lay the stretchers down onto the cots Anwar had readied. The teenager herself walked in, helping an older woman whose armor didn’t seem to fit so well anymore as she limped to a cot.

“She’s the last of the injured” she said.

The woman grumbled, “It’s just a sprain, Anwar, it can wait. The burns go first.”

“ _Ba’buir_ (grandmother), the healer said all the injured.” 

“Anwar…”

“You are both right,” cut Jul, “I’ll need to see to your sprain at some point. But the burns will take precedence. Please take a seat. Din, can you recruit me those steady hands?” 

Din was reluctant to leave her, but he nodded and left the Crest. Ruusan was good with assembling small things, she often helped the Armorer with armor circuitry. Looking around the clearing, Din saw Paz getting people organized, distributing water cups with straws, and sending families inside the two other ships for meals. Among the crowd, he spotted Kirkbelv, the Covert’s mechanic. If the Crest had survived to this day, it was in no small part thanks to em, and eir sodering precision was well-known. Finally, Paz himself was reputed for his skill with needle and thread, and his darning was sought-after. 

Having assembled those three people, Din brought them back to the Razor Crest. Only the side door was open to maximize space, and Din poked his head in. Jul had set up a station with her tools and supplies, and was directing her conscious patients through the removal of all the armor they could. There was grumbling in Mando’a, but Jul sliced through it with an authoritative tone she rarely employed, even with Peoapod at his worst. 

“Creed or not, those burns have been festering for days, and I will need the best access I can. It’s that, or I’m cutting through all the undersuits.” 

She gestured menacingly with a scary-looking pair of shears, and the undressing accelerated. Seeing Din had come back with people, Jul stepped out of the Crest. Din made introductions, and Jul after shaking their hands, declared, “Ok, I’m going to say it now, and say it once: this is not going to be pretty. If you need a break at any time, including if you need to leave and not come back, there is no shame in it. I would rather you do that than make it worse for the patient’s outcome because you’re nauseous and your hands are trembling.”

Din could tell Ruusan felt offended in her Mandalorian pride, but Kirkbelv asked, sounding nervous, “How bad are we talking?” 

“Burns several days old, likely with blisters that burst. We are looking at potential infection, having to drain pus, maybe even debride the wounds, depending on the severity. All your underarmor suits are fire-resistant, praise the Maker, so at least we don’t have any melted fibers to deal with.”

“The Armorer…” started Ruusan.

“We’ll take care of her once the older wounded have been treated. I gave her a sedative, and she was the best equipped anyway, her armor and leather tunic protected her well. We have two unconscious fellows. Ruusan, Kirkbelv, I want you to take care of them once I’ve shown you what to do on one of our conscious patients. I’m going to hazard a guess and say that those who are conscious won’t agree to get knocked out for the procedure?” 

The four Mandalorians nodded and she sighed. 

“Ok, then. Paz, Din, you’re with me. I’m going to need you to restrain them.”

There was a commotion from inside the Crest, and they all looked to the door, then to Jul. Shaking her head, she said, “Just remember, take a break when you need,” and stepped back inside. 

The scene that welcomed them was a hold packed with half-naked Mandalorians limping out of the way of a determined, tottering Peapod. The slow-motion chase was so completely absurd that Din stood frozen for a second, just long enough for a man in his underwear and helmet to spot him and yell, “ _Beroya_ , keep your foundling away! He’s trying to use his powers against us.”

Paz, standing behind Din, grumbled: “You should be so lucky…” but Jul was louder as she admonished the child, “Cutie, what did we say about the Force healing?” 

The child turned to her with drooping ears. She sighed. 

“You can help me soothe them, if they agree to it. But no healing! The Force is weak here, and we promised not to exhaust ourselves.” 

The child perked up at her offer, and walked to her as she sat on a folding chair next to an empty cot. Jul handed out scalpels to her helpers and unsheathed her Parjai-forged paring knife for herself.

“Ok, you, you’re first.” 

She pointed to the limping man in his underwear, whose helmet Din only vaguely recognized. A number of people had joined their Nevarro Covert from another Covert a few years back, and he had never gotten to know them too well. Obeying her directions, the man lied down on his left side, revealing angry purple welts on his right ribs and on his right knee. 

Jul took a deep breath, laid a careful hand on the man’s skin, and got to work. 


	43. Paz Vizsla

I’m not a squeamish man, but even I, on hour three of watching Jul clean up purulent blisters, am starting to feel a bit faint. Ruusan gave up altogether, and Kirkbelv has been taking more and more frequent breaks. Surprisingly, Ruusan’s foundling, Anwar, has replaced her parent. Maybe it’s that she has yet to experience such a grave injury herself, or maybe it’s because she’s a Falleen and so can detach herself from the Human plight, but she has been exceptionally untouched by the work. Under Jul’s steady guidance, and with Din’s help, she is even getting started on the Armorer’s injuries. 

“Peapod…” 

I turn my head back to Jul, as she is gently pushing the kid’s hand away from the burn she is treating. She scrapes the bottom of the ointment jar, carefully applies the paste, and then covers the wound with a layer of gauze she tapes down far from the wound. The patient, Olade, observes but stays silent. I’m holding her arm steady more by precaution than anything else as she has not flinched once through the process. 

“Ok, now, just soothe the pain, cutie, no healing.” 

Peapod extends his clawed fingers again, and I let go of Olade’s arm. She looks to me for confirmation, and when I nod she gives the kid her bare hand. Her shoulders immediately slump, and I hear her gasp through her vocoder.

“What…” 

“Turns out the Force is real, and this kid speaks its language” jokes Jul, as she has several times already. 

Olade thanks them both before wandering out the Crest, spare vambrace under her arm, step loose now that the pain is gone. Jul surveys the Crest’s hold for a second, and she seems a bit lost when the next patient fails to come forward. She turns to me, and she looks like she needs a hug and ten days of sleep. I glance to Din briefly, but he is busy with the Armorer, so I take matters into my own hands. 

“How are you faring, Jul?” 

“Tired. Out of juice.”

She stands up, picking Peapod up on the way, and wavers a bit once straightening. Resisting the urge to just enfold them in my embrace, I steady Jul with a hand on her shoulder. 

“I suggest you lay down for a bit.” 

She shakes her head. 

“I wish, but I need to check on your Armorer.”

We walk over and Anwar pauses her work. She was using the last of the bacta spray on the back of the _alor_ ’s left leg, and Jul gestures for her to keep going. Once the girl is done, she comments, “The Armorer’s burns weren’t as bad. The liquid is clear in the blisters.” 

Jul nods, “No infection, and the bacta will keep it that way. You did really good, Anwar.” 

The girl stands up at attention, and you can tell she is beaming under her helmet.

“Thanks, Healer Jul!”

Jul smiles, moving Peapod to her hip so she can extend a hand to the girl’s shoulder. 

“Can I trust you to keep an eye on the sleeping patients, sterilize all the tools we used, and call me if anybody wakes up or comes looking for me, ok?” 

“What about my _ba’buir_ , Healer?”

“Oh!”

Jul turns to a corner of the ship and following her gaze I spot Choruk. Who knows how long she has been sitting there quietly, staying out of the way. The elder looks skinnier than she was on Nevarro, her armor hangs awkwardly on her frame when she rises and limps forward. Anwar hurries to help her, leading her to the chair Jul has had patients sit in. Poor Jul’s knees crack as she crouches, but she patiently takes care of the sprained ankle. While she works, Din lets me know to come find him when we are done and climbs up the ladder. Jul has Peapod soothe Choruk’s pain with a careful hand, then recommends she elevates her leg to bring the swelling down. When Jul rises back up, she wavers again, and this time I just step close so she can lean on my shoulder as she needs, ready to catch her should she stumble. She purses her nose at me but doesn’t comment as she bids Choruk farewell and reiterates her instructions to Anwar. 

Once she is done, I usher her towards the ladder and she grumbles, “I’m going, I’m going…”

Sign that she knows she’s flagging, she passes me the kid so she can focus on the ladder. The scamp attaches himself to my arm and I climb after her. Din meets us at the ladderwell, hands full with plates and mugs. He tilts his head towards the cockpit and I push Jul until she seats heavily in the pilot chair. Din immediately hands her a plate and mug, before serving me as well. We munch for a moment on leftover bread and cheese, the kid more than happy to eat my cheese and leave me the dry bread, before Din hazards a question.

“Will everybody be ok?” 

Jul takes a sip of water, sighs heavily, and eventually answers, “I’m out of antibiotics, nearly out of painkillers, and I don’t think Peapod and I can keep taking pain or promote healing for long. The Force is simply too weak here, and so doing anything with it drains our life energy right away.” 

I glance over at Din, who lets himself fall into one of the passenger seats, arms leaned on his knees, head hanging. 

“We have limited shelter and food available here without the caves,” he states.

“Once those other ships arrive, I think you should relocate,” says Jul.

“Relocation must be the Armorer’s decision. How long before she regains consciousness?” I ask.

“Probably a few hours. She’s asleep really. She’ll have quite the neck crick once she wakes.” 

We are silent for a moment, and I do some more snacking. If it took so long for the Armorer to call the Covert to assembly, I doubt she has a second location ready. I glance at Din, and his slump says it all. This is not a great outlook. 

“So we need medical supplies, and a place to lay low…”

“Credits are tight,” points out Din. 

“I think we could half the medical costs if we go someplace with a Force vergence or something,” comments Jul.

The solution comes to me, so obvious I almost laugh out loud. 

“Din, Jul… What about taking everybody to Dawn Temple?”

Din’s head comes up and he stares at me.

“Take the Covert… to a seat of the _Jetiise_ …”

“Taking them to an abandoned, secure location that appears only on the most obscure maps,” I counter. 

Jul, perking up from her tiredness, says, “The Force was strong there. It could be temporary, until your Armorer finds a new place.”

Din sighs. 

“We can offer the option to the Armorer, when she wakes up,” he concedes.

With a shake of his head, he gets up, picks up our plates and goes back to the galley. 

“Is he okay?” asks Jul. 

“Our Covert is conservative. Many have only heard of the _Jetiise_ through stories of wars past.” 

“They seemed to have accepted me, no?”

I measure my words before I admit, “Din and I vouched for you. Besides, you are the only healer present at the moment. Depending on the Armorer’s opinion when she wakes, they might change attitudes.” 

Before Jul can react, there is a noise by the ladder and we turn to it, silently watching as Cara appears. 

“Your ships have just broken the atmosphere. People are asking for Paz and Din outside.”

No rest for the wicked, I suppose. With a last squeeze to Jul’s shoulder, I enjoin her, “Get some rest. I will rouse you when the Armorer awakens.” 

I make for the ladder, stopping at the door to look at Cara, who nods and answers my silent question, “I’ll make sure she goes to sleep. The kid too.”

Calling for Din to follow me, I descend into the hold, then exit onto the grass just as three Covert ships grow closer on the horizon. 

“Time to break out the negotiation skills,” comments Din. 

“I shall endeavor to persuade and convince in equal measure.” 

Din snorts. 

“Fifty credits you’re punching somebody before the Armorer is even awake.” 

“I accept your wager.” 

“Oh, you think you won’t punch anybody?”

“No, I think _you_ will throw the first punch.”


	44. Cara Dune

Once Cara has made sure Jul and Peapod are asleep, she gets back down to the hold, waves to the girl who’s standing guard by the unconscious patients, and exits the ship. Outside, the Mandalorians have congregated around Din and Paz, forming a circle. Seeing so many fully armored people in one place is making Cara nervous, but the painted armors and helmets are unique enough to lessen the stormtrooper feel. 

As she approaches, the crowd reluctantly parts. A woman in dark blue armor is shaking a fist in Din’s face, and Cara catches the tailend of her sentence.

“... relocate again!”

“The caves have not worked out, what other option is there?” pleads Din.

“Exterminate the vermin!” she vituperates. 

Cara has never liked a bully, and this gesticulating woman has the making of one. Crossing her arms, Cara intervenes. 

“Since you’ve vacated the sewers, the fire ferrets have been taking over Nevarro. They are impossible to get rid of. Din is correct: you should relocate.” 

The woman turns to her and her hand goes to her blaster. 

“We don’t take advice from _aruetiise_.” 

Whatever that word is, she means Cara and Jul, no doubt. 

“Even those who just saved your ass?” 

The woman’s hand is drifting ever closer to her blaster and Cara knows she hit a nerve. The ex-Rebel nonchalantly uncrosses her arms, readying herself to throw a knife or dodge. However, another woman steps up to the first one, her armor a fading purple, and puts a hand on Dark Blue’s shoulder plate. When she talks, her tone is more neutral but not devoid of disdain. 

“You would do well to keep silent in this debate, stranger. You know nothing of Mandalorians, of our loss.” 

Cara can’t believe it. She looks to Din, who shrugs, then to Paz, who nods minutely. Drawing her anger tight like a second armor, Cara stalks to the two women, “Are you for real?” she exclaims, “You realize I’m Alderaani, right?”

Turning slowly on herself, Cara looks at the assembled crowd, meeting each visor with her gaze.

“My planet doesn’t even exist anymore. My cousin aside, I lost everybody I knew, everybody I loved. There are not even _enough_ of us left to form something like your Coverts.” 

Silence meets her words, a silence so deep Dark Blue’s snide remark rings louder than the whisper she had intended. 

“Maybe if they had been warriors and not artists…”

Rage is a familiar friend, and Cara welcomes its incandescence with relish. She unholsters her blaster and throws it as Dark Blue’s feet. 

“Were you injured by the fire ferrets?”

The woman raises her visor from the weapon to Cara’s face. 

“No,” she eventually answers. 

“Then you can fight me. If I win, you’ll have to consider my informed opinion about your survival.” 

Faded Purple snorts, “You don’t know what you’re getting into, child.” 

Cara smiles, the smile she reserves for bar fights when the knives come out and somebody invariably tries to use a bottle as a weapon. 

“Don’t I? I’ll fight both of you if you want, cowards.” 

Cara might not speak Mando’a, but she’s noticed the two Mandalorians she knows are especially prickly when that word is uttered, and judging by the way Dark Blue and Faded Purple stiffen, her aim is true. 

The two women start advancing as one, and Cara falls into a defensive stance. She’ll have to take one of them out right away if she wants a fighting chance. A clang momentarily distracts her and she glances to the side to see Paz stopping Din from joining in. Good. It’s her fight. Those assholes brought it over themselves. 

Cara doesn’t wait for the two of them to comfortably get ready to start. As soon as Faded Purple is in range, she attacks, going at her with a knife. When the fighter parries with her vambrace, and follows through with a punch from the other hand, Cara drops her knife altogether and rather than parrying herself, grabs Purple’s punching fist and pulls, adding to Purple’s momentum. When her opponent goes to steady her stance, Cara kicks her shin, and uses her free hand to grab, unbalance further, and take the fight to the ground. 

Cara is vulnerable on the ground with Dark Blue still standing, so she doesn’t waste a second. She’s sparred with Paz enough to know how to use the Mandalorian’s armor to her advantage there, and she targets her blows to the edge of the plates, where they’ll dig into the flesh with a burst of pain like being knifed. Dark Blue attempts a kick, and Cara can’t move out of the way fast enough, but she does manage to have Purple’s arm cushion the hit somewhat. Purple recovers quickly though, and Dark Blue is readying another kick. Cara has to take one of them out of the equation. When Purple, now kneeling, goes to punch her, Cara angles herself to make the hit a glancing blow to her right shoulder and grabs at the vambrace again. Purple has a grappling hook there, and, conveniently, the same controls on her vambrace as on Paz’s. Releasing the hook, Cara quickly loops the line around Purple’s upper body. Dark Blue gets a kick in, right to Cara’s face, but Cara doesn’t let go of the line, tightening it so she can hold both ends in one hand. 

Purple is starting to panic: instead of using her legs to push away, she’s fruitlessly struggling against the line, and that leaves time for Cara to take her free hand, grab the other’s helmet, and push. She vaguely hears her name, and Dark Blue has thrown herself on her back, but it’s too late: Purple is falling backwards, and Cara uses her grip on the helmet to slam her head on the ground. 

Letting go of the grappling line, Cara seizes Blue’s arms and throws the woman over her head to fall on top of her friend, buying herself a few seconds for getting up and stepping back. The scratch on her head is bleeding profusely, and she takes the time to wipe her brow. Blue is getting up, and while Cara did not remove Purple’s helmet, she can see the fear of the close call in the caution with which Blue is now approaching her. Cara smiles again. _Good_ , she thinks, _now you take me seriously._

Taking a glance around the improvised arena, she beamoans the fact that everybody is wearing a helmet: it’s tougher to judge the mood of the crowd. Paz thankfully gives her a small thumbs up, which she takes to mean no third or fourth opponent will come forward. Turning her attention back on Blue, she regrets this being a friendly match. Were it life or death, she’d be throwing knives right about now. 

Blue rushes her and they grapple. Cara is at a disadvantage: Blue got a couple good kicks in while Cara was busy with Purple, and her ribs hurt. _Hmm_ , _maybe there’s something to do here._ Giving in to the pain, Cara exaggerates the severity of her injuries, using the next couple of exchanges of blows to pretend her reaction time is slowing down. She lets the genuine aching show on her face, even grunts once or twice, and the distraction works. It’s clear the woman is not used to fighting unhelmeted opponents: the second she understands Cara’s face is expressive, she forgets to look anywhere else. 

Blue’s focus costs her the fight: she takes Cara’s bait of an opening, thinking she’ll hit an injury too painful to ignore, and Cara instead takes the hit and returns it tenfold, knocking Blue off her stride and getting her in an armlock. Blue is fruitlessly snarling against the lock, refusing to concede defeat, when a voice cuts through the haze of adrenaline. 

“Enough.”

A murmur goes through the crowd and Cara lets Dark Blue go. It’s the Mandalorian leader, the woman with the golden, spiked helmet, the one Din and Paz call _alor_ and Armorer. Walking slowly with the teenage Falleen’s help, she makes her way to the edge of the circle. 

“The Rebel warrior has proven her worth. Her point is valid. Alderaanians, Mandalorians… Even the _Jetiise_ , our enemies of old, have been hunted into extinction by the Empire.”

The words seem to create a ripple in the assembled crowd, and judging by the glance they are exchanging, Din and Paz are surprised by her declaration too. The Armorer is in pain, that much is clear from the tension in her body, and yet her voice barely shows the strain as she continues, “The Foundlings are the Future, and their safety is paramount. We must relocate.”

Silence welcomes her words, and she adds, matter-of-fact, “This is the Way.”

“This is the Way,” answer the assembled Mandalorians with varying degrees of enthusiasm. 

The saying announces the end of the conversation, and the crowd is breaking up when Jul comes running out of the Crest, in her underarmor suit, carrying Peapod. 

“What the kriff is going on,” she pants, stopping next to Din, “I thought you were supposed to wake me up when the Armorer woke up.” 

Walking to the woman, who is wearing her leather apron and armor again, Jul notes, concerned, “You really shouldn’t be up yet.”

“I must attend to my duties.” 

Jul shakes her head, turning back to Din for help. Her gaze meets Cara’s and her eyes go wide, “Cara, what happened?” 

Armorer forgotten, Jul runs to her cousin, propping the kid higher on her hip and using a corner of his robe to mop up the blood. 

“It’s just a scratch, head wounds always bleed a lot.” 

Dark Blue, who is helping Faded Purple up spits, “She got out with her life, she is lucky.” 

The Mandalorians who are walking away halt their steps, turning to see how Jul will respond. 

“If I were you, I would not threaten the only relative of the healer treating your wounded.” 

With a casual hand, Jul trails her fingers on the clean, oozing cut, and Cara feels the skin knit close, the itch of a healing scratch fading immediately. Stunned gasps welcome the display. 

“Now, if you were to relocate to Dawn Temple, even temporarily, I could heal all of you like that.” 

Someone hisses _Jetii_ like an insult under the safety of their helmet, and Cara makes to grab a knife, but Jul stops her. Jul’s voice is sad when she says, “Being a Force-user does not make me nor the kid Jedi. Actually, Cara and I are not bound by any code or citizenship. We chose to help you purely out of friendship for Din and Paz. I’d hoped you’d welcome us with thanks rather than insults, given your tradition of adoption.” 

Her disappointment breaks Cara’s heart, and when the kid coos sadly on top of that, she definitely spots a couple of Mandos shifting from one foot to the other, embarrassed.

“You have my gratitude, Julandielle Dune. Your bravery in saving our Covert and generosity in healing our wounded does you credit,” declares the Armorer, and Jul goes to her. 

“I appreciate your kind words, Armorer. Now, let’s get you some pain killers.” 

Just like that, the tension falls fully and the Mandalorians disperse. Cara dazedly follows Jul back to the Razor Crest - she wouldn’t say no to some pain killers herself. Paz and Din follow a couple of steps behind, arguing about a bet they apparently both lost. 


	45. Din Djarin

“... and here, taking that hit to bring me down, that’s a very Djarin move.”

His name being mentioned brought Din’s awareness back to the room. He had jammed himself in a corner of the hold with his favorite Veilvor Ystetheec, hoping to tune out the noise of seventeen people crammed on his ship, but his luck was running out. Glancing over to the other side of the hold without actually moving his head, he spotted Cara and Inash Keldau going over their earlier fight, reviewing a holo taken by Paz. The heavy infantry quacked in indignation.

“I am quite certain I taught Cara that move, not Din!”

Keldau punched Paz lightly in the shoulder.

“I wouldn’t brag, training with you is the reason Djarin thinks he’s a heavy and always comes back banged up from his hunts.”

Din took offense to the comment, his style was different from Paz’s, Keldau just didn’t have a discerning eye. He chose to stay silent however, as they were lucky Keldau was taking her defeat well enough to not only apologize for her offending comment, but even engage with Cara. The Armorer’s thanks and decision to go to the Dawn Temple had done a lot to tip the Covert’s attitude towards welcoming rather than aggressive. 

A series of clattering bangs from upstairs pulled Din’s attention away from the group across the hold. Rising from his spot, he addressed the five other people in the hold, “I’ll go check it out.” 

Datapad under one arm, he climbed the ladder. A glance into the cockpit showed four people hanging out there, quietly reading or watching holos, while a glance into the living quarters showed a pile of pans on the floor and a kid in green armor and no helmet trying to hide behind Anwar. Ruusan was here too, and started picking up the pans, “Sorry for the noise, we were trying to reach a small pan to make some boiled mealgrain.”

Din was walking over to help when his cabin’s door slid open and Jul emerged, still pulling on some pants, hair a total mess, and vague panic on her face.

“Are we under attack?” she asked, zeroing in on Din. 

“Just some pans…” _was that his pants?_ “falling…” _and one of Paz’s shirts?_ “down,” he finished with difficulty. 

Din’s throat clicked as he swallowed, cheeks burning under the helmet. Like a puppet whose strings had been cut, Jul slumped, leaning on the doorframe. Paz’s shirt, which was more of a dress on her, slid off one shoulder as she pushed her hair back, revealing a delicate clavicule. Din turned to Ruusan, almost expecting her to be covering her foundling’s eyes, as Mandalorians very rarely showed that much skin, but she was staring at him, head cocked, and Din got the distinct feeling that Covert gossip would prominently feature Paz, Jul, and him very soon. 

With a sigh, Jul straightened up. Noting everybody was staring at her, she smiled nervously, pulled the shirt back up her shoulder, and, still addressing Din, commented, “I hope you don’t mind I borrowed some stuff, my cabin was taken when I went to sleep.”

Clearing his throat, Din answered, “No, no, it’s fine.”

He was feeling very warm from a mix of embarrassment and, well, arousal, and he hoped nobody could tell as he finished walking to the kitchen and took over from Ruusan, getting the right pan and the grain out. From the corner of his eye, he saw Jul tie her hair before walking to the spice cabinet, taking out all the strong spices she knew Din used for his porridge. They rarely cooked together, as Jul had been taking over that duty entirely, and yet she moved around him smoothly, passing wooden spoons and spice containers over before he even asked. Din could feel the other Mandalorians in the room watching, the minutes agonizing as the porridge simmered. Jul was seemingly undisturbed, humming to herself as she left Din to stir the contents of the pan, gathering bowls and large straws. She cleaned a couple of the dirty dishes to complete the set, counting under her breath. 

“We’ll be short, we might have to eat in two or three rounds.” 

Leaning casually over Din’s shoulder, she dipped a clean spoon in the porridge, blew on it gently, then tasted it. She immediately coughed and, laughing, declared, “Oh, it’s got that _heturam_ (spicy heat) you like, alright.”

Grabbing the hem of Paz’s shirt, she dabbed at her overflowing eyes, revealing her bare stomach and, dank farrik, Din had seen her in her pajamas before, and swimming mostly naked in a lake, why was this affecting him so much now? He fumbled the first bowl he was pouring porridge in, but Jul caught it before it hit the ground. She handed the bowl back to Din and, turning her back to the rest of the room, she leaned in close and whispered for his audio input only, “I guess I better go dress properly, heh?”

Everybody would be fully armored, slurping breakfast through straws and she would be naked in his cabin… Wrestling his mind under control, Din hummed in the affirmative, and Jul slunk back into the cabin, the door whispering closed. Focusing on the task at hand, Din served a first round of breakfast. Just eight more hours and they’d be on Spintir, and maybe, _maybe_ , he would finally catch a minute alone with Jul.


	46. Paz Vizsla

I cannot wait to arrive at the Dawn Temple. Despite our two _aruetiise_ endearing themselves to the Mandalorians onboard the Crest, Jul through delicious food, and Cara by letting the kids beat her at arm wrestling, there is only so long seventeen people can breathe the same recycled air on a ship designed for three. I am running ragged trying to keep the peace, with Din opting to make himself scarce. He is as conflict averse as a Mandalorian can be, which is nice when he disagrees with me, but less so when Ruusan decides she should be the one coordinating our arrival at the Temple. I end up resorting to contacting the Armorer. She is on a smaller, faster, and better armed gunship for safety. She recognizes Din and I should lead our landing, since we have been to the Temple before, but does put Ruusan in charge of inventorying and unloading our supplies. 

There is nowhere private to discuss a plan, and so Din and I have to contend with unwanted advice from various sources as we devise a way to make our arrival on Spintir not worth noting. When we finally come out of hyperspace and approach Spintir, kids and adults alike crowd the cockpit. Oohs and aahs pour out of every mouth as the clouds shift, revealing green plains, dense forests, and ice-capped mountains. 

Tension rises when we are hailed by the spaceport tower in Reles, the only true city on the planet. Thankfully, the city is also a trade center for the sector, and so, after shushing everybody, Din says he is here to refuel and buy provisions. They won’t be able to track the Razor Crest once we are visually hidden by the planet’s curvature, so the plan is to drop off everybody at the Dawn Temple, then head to the spaceport for some legitimate business. The other ships will drop out of hyperspace at various times, and use the same excuse. While the Razor Crest’s pre-Empire build is unique in our fleet, all our ships have scrambling in place to make identification difficult. 

The flight to the Temple itself is short. The weather is beautiful on the plateau, it’s a clear winter day today on Spintir. Din, a not-so-secret softy, flies us once around the Temple to please the kids. When the river that exits the Temple is revealed to become a waterfall, excitement replaces the anxiety in the packed cockpit, and the views are described in great details to the people who haven’t managed to squeeze themselves in. 

Din then heads for the hidden landing pad, which from afar just looks like a thin shadow on the cliffside. As we come nearer, the kids gasp, one of them cheekily asking if his _buir_ if Din plans on crashing us on the mountain, but soon the shadow reveals itself to be a small cut into the stone. It is only big enough for one ship at a time and I have to admit even I am nervous as we pass the lip of the cave, the walls too close for comfort after the open space and sky. Din is an excellent pilot though, and the brief tunnel spits us out uninjured into the vast, artificial cave beyond. A dozen individual landing pads jut out of the rock like a gigantic ship-shelving system, and Din lands us on the highest one, which is closest to the tunnel going into the temple. 

There’s a buzz of excitement going through the ship as people climb down the ladder and start exiting the ship. I’m actually quite glad Ruusan insisted on taking care of unloading now as it becomes an exercise in herding loth-cats to get the Mandalorians to stop gawking and actually do some work. Eventually, she fires her blaster in the air, and starts issuing orders in Mando’a. Military discipline takes over, and we are on our way to the main part of the Temple. Progress is slow with everybody being encumbered, but we eventually enter the above ground part of the Temple. The halls are dusty and broken windows let the cold air in, but the place is sunny, and it’s obvious that with a bit of care it will feel cosy, much more so than the Nevarro sewers were. At its core, the Dawn Temple is a place made to be lived in, and that atmosphere is palpable. 

Jul, who is walking ahead of me carrying her medical supplies, slows down until we can walk side by side. 

“You can feel it too, right?”

I look at her, and she tilts her head up to smile at me, the wrinkles at the corner of her eyes endearing. I’m confused by her question, wondering if she is referring to the growing friendship between us, but she clarifies, “This place, Mezerel wasn’t joking. It’s got a great healing energy.”

My confusion abates, and I’m maybe a bit disappointed even that it’s the Temple’s mood she picked up on. 

“Could you not feel it when we visited before?”

“I could feel how close the Force was, but nobody was injured then.” 

She points to the two patients still too bad off to walk on their own power, being transported on stretchers. 

“It’s already gathering around them, it will need little encouragement on my part to do its work. A good dunk in the waters every day, and they’ll be up in no time.”

“This is excellent news.” 

Lowering her voice, Jul adds, “I did some more reading on the way over, and it’s not just physical injuries that will mend here. Jedi who had fallen to the Dark Side would be brought here to return to the Light.” 

Whispering as well, I ask, “Do you think it will help you?” 

“Me, Peapod… and all your Covert. There is so much fear and anger in them. We could all use some unwinding.” 

Glancing around to make sure nobody is close enough to overhear, I urge her, “Tread carefully when you talk to the other Mandalorians. Learning that they might be influenced by the Force by living here could be perceived as a dishonest Jedi trick, an aggression. I’ve no desire to see your life in danger.”

Jul wraps an arm around my waist and hugs me sideways.

“Aw, I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me. Thanks, Paz.”

She is teasing but sincere, and I feel a bit embarrassed. Justifying myself, I blurt, “If Din were here, he would surely say the same!”

She chuckles, “He already did. I walked to the front earlier to tell him.” 

She squeezes me a bit tighter before letting go, accelerating her pace to catch up with one of the stretchers ahead and check in with its occupant. Frowning under my helmet, I vow to keep an eye on her when I can, just to make sure nobody is harassing her. I’m asking myself how I have become so close to somebody whom, by all means, I should be very jealous of, but we finally reach the central room before I can find a satisfying answer. 

What will likely become the _karyai_ , the central living space of the new Covert, is a courtyard with a transparisteel domed roof. Paved paths cross the dirt floor, and plants long abandoned have grown beyond their neat bounds, branches reaching for the sky and roots lifting the red brick stones. The kids are quick to drop their burdens and immediately start running around and climbing the trees. Peapod, who is floating in his pram at Din’s side, drops himself to the ground and waddles after them. Din raises a hand, ready to call him back, but Anwar, on her way to catch up with the other kids, lifts the kid up and yells back to Din, “I’ll make sure he stays with us, _beroya_!” 

We have scanned the place for lifeforms before landing, so beyond kicking up dust and maybe encountering a few flitterbats, the kids are safe. They squeal with excitement as they disappear into the next chamber, a deep circular room where I remember a staircase leading down into a pool of naturally warm water which cascades there from the spring at the highest point of the Temple. Even from here I can see steam puffing into the courtyard, which also explains why the plants are thriving despite it being winter outside. Once we repair the windows, I suspect the whole place will be warmed by the thermal activity. 

With a happy sigh and a crack of my knuckles, I get to work. 


	47. Cara Dune

“The _aruetii_ Armorer just landed!”

“I heard he was raised Mandalorian but didn’t swear the Creed.” 

“Does that make him an _aruetii_ or _dar’manda_?”

“Who cares? I still don’t understand why our _alor_ needs him in the first place.” 

“ _Utreekov_ (fool), of course she can’t forge with her burns not fully healed.” 

Shaking her head, Cara pushes past the gossiping Mandos, briskly heading for the ship hangar. With protection of her tribe at the forefront of her thoughts, Kara, the Armorer, with whom Cara bonded over their shared name, accepted Cara’s recommendation to call on Parjai and his apprentice for help reforging armor lost in the evacuation of Nevarro. Parjai, after having some qualms about his welcome at a Covert of conservative Mandalorians, caved to Naharb’s begging and agreed to stay for a few weeks. A ship of Mandos finally rejoining the Covert picked the both of them up on their way.

Cara is glad some more outsiders are joining them. Most of the Covert is actually warming up to Jul and her, but it means incessant questions from both adults and children. Din, and Paz by extension, are supremely well adjusted for people who, as Cara is starting to understand, were essentially raised in a community so closed up and regulated she dares calling it a cult, if only in whispered conversations with Jul, far from prying ears. Now that they deemed Cara and Jul safe, the Mandalorians’ curiosity is insatiable. Cara finds herself explaining things both mundane and metaphysical, like what tattoos are and why you might want any. 

So she is a bit harried, and delighted to be welcoming reinforcements. So delighted she hugs both Parjai and Naharb as soon as she spots them. Parjai laughs and returns the accolade gladly, while Naharb frozen on the spot, looks to be about to faint. Recalling a bit late that the teenager has a crush on her Cara lets her go and, with a friendly slap to the shoulder, declares, “Don’t read into it! I’m just glad to see somebody’s face again.” 

Grabbing some of Parjai’s luggage, she takes the newcomers on a tour. They first arrived at the Dawn Temple a bit over a week ago now, and the place is already much more homy. 

“Here is the kitchen, and the refectory - we’ve installed some family and some individual privacy screens so people can pop off their helmets and eat.” 

Gesturing towards the hallway leading to the sleeping quarters she explains, “There’s not enough room for independent clan lodgings here, so this is the compromise: families get sleeping rooms to themselves, and we take meals in common. There’s a bell that rings three times a day when food is ready.”

Next, she takes the guests into the _karyai_ , where off-duty Mandos are milling about, chatting in small groups, playing games or watching holos. She points to a large screen covered in Mando’a but for two rows, one titled Jul Dune and one titled Cara Dune. 

“This is the task board, where we gather every morning to figure out what’s the chore we’ve been assigned by the _alor_. Yours will probably read ‘report to the Forge’ every day. Oh, and rotations are twenty-seven hours here, so expect your first couple of days to feel weird.” 

Parjai whistles.

“This is quite the organized operation you have here.” 

Cara laughs, “Reminds me of my Rebel days, if I’m honest.” 

She doesn’t say it in a bad way: she has not felt that purposeful, and frankly that happy, in a while. Meeting Din, helping save Peapod, and rekindling her friendship with Jul are all things that turned her life around for the best, but their search for the Jedi has often been haphazard and disappointing. Here, she gets to go to bed every night with the satisfaction of a job well done. The absence of constant danger is a perk too. 

Once Parjai and Naharb are done looking around the _karyai_ and have peeked into the circular chamber with the interior waterfall and healing baths, Cara starts the ascension to the top chamber of the Temple, where the main hot spring takes its source and where the Armorer has, slowly and painfully, started setting up her Forge. 

She is waiting for them, standing in an impassive stance as they enter the room. Cara knows that even that much is costing her. Some of her treatments and reeducation take two people, but she has been unwilling to show weakness to her Covert, so Jul enlisted Cara. When asked how she wanted the two outsiders to address her, the Armorer answered: “By my name, Kara, with a k.” From there, Cara has found herself drawn to her namesake and, dare she think it, the aloof _alor_ is slowly warming up to her and taking her into her confidence. Coming back to the present, and noticing everybody is looking at her, no doubt waiting for introductions, Cara says, “Well, erm, _alor_ , here they are: Parjai, and Naharb.” 

She points to each in turn, feeling like she is messing up the pomp such a moment should entail, but Kara just nods, regal. 

“ _Olarom_ (welcome), Parjai, Naharb.”

Some niceties are said, then Cara exits the room, leaving them to their forging. 

Having finished her assignment of the day, she drops by the room she shares with Jul before heading to the baths. Jul is off dinner duty today, so it’s likely she will be there, supervising the daily dunk in the healing waters patients are given. 

“Three, two, one… Easy, there you go.”

It’s Jul alright, helping a grumpy Mandalorian wearing a ridiculous amount of clothing for somebody bathing. Her cousin has the patience of a saint, working around all those weird regulations and habits the Mandalorians have. Even having read _Beskar in Bloom_ , where the dashing hero does not remove her helmet until book three, and only with family, Cara had not been prepared for how bizarre it feels to be the only barefaced one in any space she steps into. 

As she enjoys a foamy shower followed by a relaxing bath in one of the private cabins, she realizes that while she doesn’t understand all the details of their Creed yet, the Mandalorians themselves are growing on her. Behind the military discipline, and the tendency to resolve conflicts with violence, they are good people. 

Watching the steam twirl lazily, Cara smiles to herself. For one, they adore kids. Their own, others’, green, wrinkly and magic, it doesn’t seem to matter. Children are given education, responsibilities, the best food available, and much more freedom than you’d expect from such a disciplined bunch. For two, it took Cara one night watching Mandos play chess with knives and yell poetry back and forth across the courtyard to realize that they do have a sense of humor, and an appetite for life that resonates with her. If she’s being honest, the sparring-as-conflict-resolution also fits with her style. 

Wondering what she’s missing in her mental list of Mando qualities, Cara exits the tub, and starts drying herself. She’s wrapping her head when it comes to her: most of all, the Mandalorians have an uncompromising sense of honor and justice she respects tremendously. Oh, she thinks they get a couple of things wrong, but to follow one's convictions with such will, in the face of genocide, still is admirable in her book. In a weird way, they are very much like Jul in that respect, and it's no surprise to Cara they have accepted her despite knowing she made a vow of non-aggression.

Taking a glance at the small, foggy window, Cara hurries to dress. Judging by the waning light, the dinner bell will ring soon, and she wants to catch Din at the refectory. She got the feeling he was getting antsy the last time they spoke — briefly, as it turns out Paz and him are somewhat important and trusted to make organizational decisions. Now, her decision made, she needs to tell him she will stick around Dawn Temple when he leaves. She wants to see to it that the Covert is settled properly before she heads back to Nevarro. 

Before she exits the privacy of the cabin, Cara admits to herself: maybe, depending on how things go, she’ll even just settle right here, even if it would disappoint Karga, who regularly asks for updates on their adventures. 


	48. Din Djarin

It had been fifteen days already since they had landed at the Dawn Temple. Now that the Covert was well established, and it looked like the temporary stop would be permanent, Din was starting to feel restless. Peapod’s prolonged presence was a danger to the Covert, and besides they had made no progress in finding a Jedi to reunite him with. While Din was in no rush to relinquish his foundling, he could only justify delaying his duty for so long. 

The evening found him pondering those matters as he played a round of sabacc with Paz, the two of them sitting in a quiet corner of the _karyai._ Cara was in the process of beating half the Covert at arm-wrestling, under the Armorer’s gaze. Din had rarely seen their _alor_ mingle so, but was glad Cara had made the most powerful friend she could have. 

“Din? It’s your turn.” 

Turning back to the game, Din sighed and folded. Paz gathered the cards and shuffled. 

“You seem preoccupied.” 

There was no judgement in Paz’s voice, and Din admitted, “We need to get moving. I think Ilum’s next.”

Paz asked, “The Temple where the crystals for the sabers originate from?”

Din nodded. Paz dealt, and they both looked at their cards in silence. A cheer went out on the other side of the room, and when Din glanced over he caught the tail end of Parjai beating Cara at arm wrestling. Bit unexpected, but the man did work a forge after all. As he thought about it again, Din added, “Cara won’t be coming with us.”

Paz hummed, but before he could answer, Jul asked from right behind Din’s right shoulder, “Where won’t Cara be coming?” 

Din jumped and Paz, who had for sure seen her approach, guffawed under his helmet. Shaking his head at the others’ antics, Din made space for Jul as she brought a chair over. She kept complaining that the heat and humidity of the healing pools was making her hair messy, but Din rather liked how its volume was an aura around her head. He found her more stunning everyday, though he had only voiced that thought to Paz, who had in turn called him a lovesick strill’ika. Din was too good a friend to point out that Paz also only had eyes for Jul whenever she was in the room. Din loved the man, but he could sometimes be a bit dense about his own feelings, and the three of them had time besides to figure things out. 

A coo took Din’s attention from Jul to the floor. Peapod had followed Jul in and was offering his arms to Din to be picked up. Once they were all settled, the child in the crook of Din’s arm and Paz having reshuffled and dealt the cards, Jul asked again, “Where are we going that Cara can’t follow?” 

“Ilum, though it’s more her decision than the destination making it so she won’t come.”

Jul looked at her cards as she remarked, “I think she’s ready for a quiet life.” 

Careful to stare at his own hand, Din asked, “What about you?” 

There was a pause, long enough that Din broke and looked up. Jul was considering him, eyes soft, a half-smile on her lips. The artificial lights hit her cheekbones just right, making her dark skin shine. 

“I’ve got a few more adventures in me,” she said, moving her gaze to Paz’s visor then back to Din’s. A shiver ran down Din’s spine that had nothing to do with the upcoming mission. 

“Besides, I could use some Jedi lessons myself,” she said. 

Pushing the stack of bullet casings they used in lieu of credits towards the center of the table, she added, “I’m all in.” 

She won the round and three more after that before Din realized she was reading their mood as a way to gage their hands. Paz’s indignation made Peapod giggle so hard he fell off Din’s lap. For a second, they all stared at the kid, whose lip started to wobble under the attention, but Jul burst out laughing and the kid followed suit, actually unharmed. Their laughter triggered Din’s and Paz’s, and they all were so loud the Armorer herself walked over. Jul scooped the kid up, soothing any leftover fright with a gentle caress on his ears as the _alor_ stopped near the table. 

“It is good to hear your merriment.” 

Trying to regain countenance, Din got up and offered her his seat, which she refused with a wave of her hand. Bringing her own chair over, she took the last empty spot, across from Jul and between Paz and Din. 

“You are on the cusp of resuming your quest.”

It was not a question but Paz agreed all the same. Raising a hand, the Armorer called for Parjai, who walked over, Naharb at his shoulder like a shadow. While Parjai had fallen in easily with the Covert, Naharb was having a harder time. It did not help that while she had been considered a kid still at home, she was an adult already here by Mandalorian standards. When she was not working, she was most often found with her Master or with one of the Dunes. Once the smiths arrived at the table, the Armorer declared, “Parjai, Naharb. It is time.”

Each of them immediately unhooked what Din thought was some kind of container from their waist. When they each placed the cylinders in front of Jul, he realized what they were from the descriptions he had read: lightsabers. Parjai confirmed it. 

“We forged these based on the broken saber and the documents you procured for us. No guarantees on the results, but should you find crystals for these, we will see.” 

Naharb added, “Maybe it is a bit out of order, making the sabers before you find the crystals, but we wanted to try. Mine is for Peapod.” 

She pushed the smaller of the cylinders forward and within Peapod’s grasp, and the child took it, inspecting it curiously. Naharb had thoughtfully made the grip suitable for the child’s three fingers, and while the weapon was only small enough for him to manipulate two-handed, once he grew he would be able to use it one-handed. 

“You have an eye for weaponry,” commented Paz, no doubt having picked up the same features Din had. 

“She has all the makings of a great Armorer,” confirmed the _alor_ , while Parjai patted Naharb’s shoulder approvingly. 

The Weequay’s bark-like skin wrinkled further, which Din had not thought possible, and she squeaked a little thank you. 

“Parjai, your work is beautiful as well,” said Jul, moving reverent fingers on the other cylinder, which design was more complex, and included a few buttons. 

“The _alor_ and I worked on a few special features.”

“Shall you obtain crystals that fit the weapon, you will understand,” added the Armorer, and the tone brooked no questions. 

Jul thanked the Armorer, and encouraged Peapod to do so as well. The child cooed and the Armorer bowed her head. 

“Foundlings are the Future. This is the Way.” 

She sounded endeared, and Din heard the answering smiles in his and Paz’s voices when they repeated the motto. 

The Armorer then stood and left, gesturing for Parjai and Naharb to follow. She was headed for the Forge, and as she was about to exit the _karyai_ Jul suddenly stood as well. 

“I’ve got to ask her something. Do you think you could handle Peapod for the night?” 

Din was not sure what kind of question would take all night to answer, nor what kind of question he could not answer himself, but he plucked Peapod from Jul’s lap regardless. 

“Sure.” 

“Thanks!” 

One brilliant smile and she was running through the crowd, weaving between the assembled Mandalorians with that uncanny fluidity Din remembered from her fight with Cara. 

“I wonder what this is about,” commented Paz. 

Din shrugged, “If it’s important, she’ll tell us.” 

Paz grunted, the noise he made for ‘I’ll agree to placate you but I’m not entirely convinced’, head still turned towards where Jul had disappeared, and Din smiled. It was as good a moment as any to break the subject. The presence of others nearby would hopefully deter Paz from any rash reactions. 

“Do you have a bit of a crush, Paz?”

“What? On whom?”

Din laughed as silently as he could but Peapod, playing with his saber in Din’s lap, picked up on it and giggled aloud, giving Din away. Paz crossed his arms and Din, lifting a warding hand, said, “I’m sorry, it’s just… I meant Jul.” 

Paz’s shoulders stiffened.

“I don’t… You love her and so I care for her. For your sake. Would you rather have us at each other’s throats?” 

Din shook his head no, and waited for Paz to relax before he said, “Maybe I’m hopeful and I’m reading more into it than there is, but she’s chosen to spend a lot of time with you lately, and well, it does seem you care for her a bit more than a friend would.” 

Paz deflated further, uncrossing his arms and leaning them on the table instead, fidgeting with the sabacc cards. 

“I can see why you fell for her, Din. She has an energy about her, as if nothing wrong can happen if she is there to shield you.”

“She feels safe. She feels like home.” 

Paz nodded gravely. 

“She might not hunger for a fight like we do, but she is _mandokarla_ in every other way.”

Paz straightened up in his seat, and Din, keeping the smile off his voice, agreed in a neutral tone. 

“She is great with children,” Paz added, trying to make his point.

“Sure.”

“Fierce.”

“Huh, huh.” 

“Knows how to enjoy a good time.”

“Absolutely.” 

Din must not have managed to keep all the joy from bleeding in his tone because Paz sighed, and, after a beat, admitted, “I am beginning to see your point.”

They were silent a while longer, Din daydreaming about quarters the three of them would share, plus Peapod, quiet mornings having breakfast together. His fantasy was blurry on the details, like why would Peapod still be with them, and if Paz was wearing his helmet, but it was nice still. 

“Will you want to marry her?” 

Paz’s question shook Din out of his reverie. Paz must have been travelling down similar ideas and Din truthfully said, “If she agrees to it. You as well.” 

Paz was silent so long Din called his name out. Finally, the man cleared his throat and, sounding strange, observed, “You rejected me every time I asked, so I stopped asking.”

“I… Paz… I was _beroya_ then, liable to die every mission I took…” 

A sound that suspiciously resembled a sniffle came through the other’s modulator and Din’s heart seized. Afraid he had made a terrible mistake, Din hurried to explain, “It’s not that I didn’t love you, or didn’t think about showing you my face, I thought about it a lot, still do, actually. I just thought, it’d be better, if I don’t come back, it wouldn’t be as bad.” 

“You… you never said anything.” 

Paz sounded wrecked, the way Din had only heard him on a few occasions, the passing of his _buir_ the last he remembers. 

“I didn’t want to burden you with my, my… well, morbid thoughts. But, er, now, with this new Covert, and Jul, and Peapod, it feels… different, safer, more stable. If she… if she says yes, to me, to you too, well, if anything happens to me, you’d have her.” 

Din was talking a bit louder than he intended towards the end, halfway off his seat so he could have a hand on Paz’s shoulder. Out of breath, acutely aware of the curious looks they were starting to get, Din sat back and asked in a quieter voice, “Paz, are you ok?”

A gurgle answered him, and Paz shook his head no, then yes, then stopped moving his head altogether. Thinking back on the many proposals he had said no to, Din reached out and took Paz’s hand before whispering, “I’m sorry if it came off as if I didn’t love you enough to marry you, because I did. I still do, since I’ve been, oh, about seventeen.” 

Paz garbled, “Were you not sixteen when we started going together?”

Feeling hot and sweaty in the wake of the ebbing panic, Din joked, “What can I say, took me about a year, and then twenty more to catch up with the program.” 

Paz’s answering laugh sounded wet but Din finally breathed. 

“Are we ok?” he asked. 

Paz took a few deep breaths himself before he remarked, “Manda, being with you can be a wild ride sometimes, Djarin.”

Din squeezed the hand he was holding and waited. Eventually, Paz answered, “Yes, we’re okay, but only if we go to our room right now, gear down, cuddle, and figure out how to propose to your lady love. _Our_ lady love. I’m not losing any more time because you are a self-sacrificing idiot.” 

The correction had sent Din’s gut into a twist and, thrilled, he disregarded the insult altogether. Jumping to his feet, he dragged Paz out of his chair. The edge of Paz’s cuisse caught the table, sending the table, sabacc cards, and bullet casings hitting the floor in a fracas. 

Uncaring, Din speed walked, still pulling a willing Paz behind towards their quarters. Somebody yelled “Fight or fuck?” and the crowd started hollering. Thankfully, they were almost at the archway leading to the private rooms, and Din started running outright. He was not fast enough however, and Paz’s answer of “The later!” got them a round of noisy Mandalorian applause, half of the Covert thumping their cuirass with the flat of their hands. 

Din was too busy to be embarrassed though. Instead, he was wondering if a cave full of magical crystals might be a romantic enough spot for a marriage proposal. 


	49. Paz Vizsla

The crystal cave is magnificent in a way I’ve never witnessed before. Gaining access to it involved passing through the empty, frozen Temple, majestic but familiar after other stops on the Tour. The cave though, resplendent with multicolored light from thousands of crystals, is something else. Stalactites and stalagmites make the round space jagged, but there are paths one can take in between. I’m gawking, glad my two more experienced traveling companions can’t see my reaction as we walk further in. 

“Goddess, I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.”

Jul, carrying the kid, turns back to us and I can hear Din’s sigh from three steps away. She looks divine herself, resplendent as splashes of green, blue, and yellow illuminate the awe and wonder on her face. Din turns to me, and I nod: we agreed the cave would be as good a place as any to breach the topic of making the three of us official. Din calls her name and she smiles, but she’s distracted, turning back to the crystals and talking softly to the kid, who grasped her hand and is pointing ahead. 

“You’re right, I can feel it too. There’s one here for you.” 

It is not the right time, and Din and I follow as they meander, apparently without order or direction. She traces her steps back a few times, and eventually she sets Peapod on the ground. 

“I think we’ve got to do this separately, cutie.” 

Turning to Din, she adds, “Keep an eye on him?” 

Then turning to me, she offers, “Could you walk with me? Just in case I’m too absorbed to see a drop or something.” 

Din is already trailing after the kid, who’s waddling with determination, sure now of where he’s headed. I agree and hover at Jul’s shoulder as she walks slowly through the space, heading deeper in the cave. While the dominant light coming from the crystals is a cold white, here and there groups of red and purple crystals stand out amongst the cooler tones. The solemn mood is getting to me and, after ten minutes of seemingly fruitless erring, I whisper, “Are any of them calling to you?”

Jul hums, slowing down before coming to a stop. She doesn’t need to turn around to know I’m behind her, stepping back until her shoulder blades rest on my front cuirass, leaning her head back to align our eyesight. She points to a patch of purple crystals, murmuring also, “These feel the most familiar, but not necessarily in a good way.”

Frozen by her sudden proximity, our low voices more intimate than I expected, I push, “How so?”

“There is that temptation in them, to use the anger, to give into the urge for violence. I don’t think I should take one of them.” 

“Did the texts not caution against picking a crystal you did not resonate with?”

She sighs, leaning more fully on me, and I don’t quite know what to do with my hands, all of a sudden: give in to the want, and hug her?

“They did. I might need to meditate or something, try and reach out deeper into the Force.”

She doesn’t move though, and so I embrace her. She mumbles, “You’re warm.”

“My suit and armor have a heating system.”

“D’you think your Armorer would let me wear one of those? I’m freezing.” 

With a pinch to the chest, I think about how, if things go the way Din and I are hoping, Jul might be Clan soon enough. The Armorer might not forge her armor, but she could definitely get a _kute_. Unwilling to tip my hand, I rub her arms up and down to warm her up instead of answering. After one more moment, Jul straightens up and takes a few steps away from me. 

“Ok, lets try this then.”

She sits down, crossed-legged on the ground, closes her eyes, and I wait. 

And wait.

And wait. 

After ten minutes of watching Jul’s breath condense in the cold air of the cave, I start wandering away, looking for Din and Peapod. I find them pretty far away, Din lifting the kid above his head so he can dislodge a crystal from the cave wall. At first the kid’s scrabbling looks ineffective, but suddenly he frowns, and the kyber crystal just… pops into his hand. 

Din immediately brings Peapod to the ground and kneels, presenting the kid with his saber. By the time I am close enough to hear them, Din is mumbling about the Armorer not having provided information about how to open the casing to get the crystal inside. 

“Can I provide help?” 

Din looks up to me and shrugs, “You can try, sure.” 

I kneel next to him and remove my gloves. The cold air of the cave attacks my fingers as I trace the contours of the cylinder. Naharb did a beautiful job, the saber hilt is seamless, with smooth depressions for Peapod’s fingers the only irregularity in the metal. It’s the placement of the button, on the butt of the saber, that gives me a hint. 

“It appears the ends are screwed in.”

I show it to Din who sighs, “I should have looked more closely. The tool we need is back at the ship. Sorry, kid, you’ll have to wait until we go back.” 

No sooner has he said the words that I feel the cylinder shake the slightest bit between my hands. Looking at Peapod, he has a hand extended towards the saber, focus scrunching up his face once more, and the end is slowly but surely rotating on its own. I’ve witnessed Jul and Peapod training almost everyday, and yet, the precision of that movement astonishes me. His control had greatly improved. 

Peapod raises his other hand and, obeying the gentle pull I feel in my fingers, I let the main cylinder go. Soon, the main cylinder, the two ends, and the kyber crystal are floating in the air. Up close, I can see the crystal is a warm yellow before it disappears in the tube. It is not unlike watching spaceships dock: the ends float slowly back to the main cylinder, and slowly, gracefully, the threads engage until the saber is one once more. 

The saber clatters to the ground, and Peapod sits heavily. 

“Good job kid, you did so good!”

The joy in Din’s voice doubles my own satisfaction at Peapod’s achievement, and I pick up the kid, hugging him to my warm cuirass before passing him to Din.

“Should we try turning it on?” Din asks, and the kid nods solemnly. 

I put my gloves back on and we all stand, Din with the kid in the crook of his left arm and the lightsaber in his right. He brings the weapon up to the kids hands and I move to his side, helping the kid wrap his fingers around it, and making sure to aim away from either of us. 

“Should we not wait for Jul?” I suddenly blurt. 

“Where is she anyway?”

“Medi…”

A loud noise interrupts me. DIn and I look to the mouth of the cave, and to the temple beyond. Jul and Peapod had to lift some ice out of the way for us to get in, and it sounds like a block just fell to the ground. 

“Do you think…” 

The distinctive sound of a stormtrooper unit clanging their way in has Din crouch under the scant cover of a low rock. 

“Find Jul!” he orders, but it’s too late, we’ve been spotted and the firefight begins. 

We manage to shoot down four or six of them before they get past the funnel of the door and start spreading about the cave, heading for us. Din’s sigh crackles through his audio as he switches to an internal channel. 

“You take the right, I’ve got the left, ” he says, and I confirm before rolling out of cover and to a bigger boulder. 

The firefight proceeds into close-quarters, which I don’t mind in the least: stormtroopers’ crappy plasteel has nothing on beskar alloy. Din is bashing fists with his head, taking down trooper after trooper, and I blame the sight he makes for distracting me as I fail to smack a blaster out of the hand of a trooper. The gal promptly shoots me in the leg, and there’s no amount of poor marksmanship that can save me from her point blank aim. 

I go to my knees with a shout of pain, but Din is too busy to come to my rescue, he’s got three troopers on him and the kid hanging from his neck besides. I take down the trooper, try to get up, but the pain is too much. I can feel wetness trickle down my leg, and that much blood is not a good sign. 

Four more troopers, one of them with an officer’s orange pauldron, are nearing me, weapons at the ready. They are the last of the attack team, I think, but there’s nothing I can do but try and tourniquet my leg, hands fumbling as I become dizzy. A warning shot bounces off my vambrace and I need to abandon my attempt at first aid to return fire. The troopers scramble for cover and we exchange shots, me in the open and them behind some rocks I really wish weren’t there. 

I’m opening my mouth to call on Din when a flash catches my eye. With a cry of anger and fear, Jul bowls over one of the stormtroopers in her rush to reach me. The trooper stumbles into the open and I immediately kill him, which triggers a new round of shooting from the others. Jul zigzags, dodging the blaster bolts, and grabs me under the arms. 

“Don’t kill the officer, I want to ask some questions!” she yells, like I’m in any shape to take anybody down. 

I try to snark back but cry out in pain instead. With a groan of her own, and no doubt a bit of help from the Force, Jul drags me easily behind the first bump she sees. It’s short, too short, but the blood loss is slowing me down and I don’t have time to tell her that before she pushes me fully prone, the only way the minimal cover protects me. 

And then she stands. 

I call out her name, a warning, but she doesn’t heed it. Facing the troopers, she activates her lightsaber. It shines brighter than the luminescent kyber crystals, a pale Akiva lavender, white with the barest hint of purple. The troopers redouble their shooting, and a couple of bolts come close enough that Jul has to parry them with the blade. 

She kriffing _parries blaster bolts_ with her lightsaber. 

If I had not lost so much blood already it might have rushed someplace else. The stormtroopers are momentarily stumped, and Jul uses the pause to shake her saber. The straight blade fizzles out and I cry out, dismayed, but she shakes her hand again and the brilliant lavender plasma reappears, this time forming a large circle with the handle at the center. There are black spots at the edges of my vision, but the sunburst pattern crossed by concentric circles is unmistakable. Consciousness ebbing, I swear I’ll hug the Armorer next I see her: she made Jul a Mandalorian Combat Shield. 

“Din, capture the officer, don’t kill her,” I hear her say in the com before she turns to me. 

The last image I see before going under is Jul kneeling by my side, the shield floating being her like a halo.


	50. Din Djarin

Din ran, the powdery snow on the ground muting all sounds. The peppering of flakes became a dense blizzard while Din and his crew were inside the Ilum Temple and its Crystal Cave, and it worked in Din’s favor as he approached the Razor Crest on foot. The jet pack was too loud and there was a high probability stormtroopers would be waiting for them at the ship. The faster he could secure the ship, the faster he could get Paz to it. 

Activating the enhanced vision in his helmet, Din slowed down, circling at a distance to take the troopers by surprise, arriving from behind. He had Peapod with him, the kid awake but tired after pushing some troopers away with the Force back inside the cave, helping Din fight them while Jul had stabilized Paz. With the snow making it easy to get lost, Din did not dare put the green terror down lest he wandered away. 

Din finally came close enough for the helmet’s enhanced vision to pierce through the thick curtain of snowflakes. Three troopers stood guard by the Razor Crest, as the trooper officer had revealed after Jul asked some pointed questions. Weapons at the ready, the troopers were patrolling around the ship. Taking them down one by one was the fastest and safest option, since Din didn’t have Peapod’s pram. The bounty hunter briefly regretted not having brought his Amban rifle for the outing. He would have to do some sneaking and close-up combat. 

Bundling the kid tighter in his cape - the temperature had dropped as clouds hid the sun - Din placed the precious bundle under one arm, where he could easily orient his body to protect Peapod from a hit. That left only one arm for fighting, but he had done more in worse conditions. Waiting for only one of the troopers to be on his side of the ship, he ran forward, stabbed the man with his vibroblade, and quickly laid him close to the ship. Thankfully, the white armor was providing some camouflage, and Din repeated his scheme when the second trooper turned the corner of the ship. 

The man struggled more, letting out a cry as he fell down, and the third trooper showed up before the second one was fully dispatched. Groaning, Din turned his back on the newest arrival, blaster shots ringing as they hit his armor. Using his vibrobale as a lever to pop the helmet off the trooper on the ground, Din stomped the guy’s face into unconsciousness - hopefully not death, or Jul would be cross, though he had not been particularly careful earlier at the cave, not with her standing alone against three of them, lightshield blazing but otherwise unarmed. 

Sudden burning in his calf took Din back to the present. Turning towards his assailant, Din wrapped his armored arms around Peapod and walked forward, ignoring the blaster shots rebounding off the armor. Realizing his demise was close, the trooper dropped his ineffective weapon and turned to run. Picking up the pistol, Din set it to stun, aimed carefully for an unprotected joint, and took down the last guard. 

After a quick command to the Razor Crest to start the pre-flight routine, Din made his way back to the Temple. He had helped Jul carry Paz to the Temple’s entrance, hoping she’d be able to make some progress in the snow. 

“Jul, the Crest is secure, where are you?”

The answer came immediately, and there was worry in Jul’s voice when she said, “Still halfway to the Temple, Paz is getting worse.” 

Din gripped Peapod tightly and took to the sky, using Paz’s location ping to find them. In her panic, or maybe in order to reassure herself, Jul had kept the line open, and Din heard her say, “Kriffing hell. I can’t feel my fingers, this is no good. Paz, Paz, are you still with me? I hope this is ok, my eyes are closed, I swear.”

Paz’s answer was a mumble smothered by the snow and Din hurried as he could through the blinding flurries - what was she doing? Was Paz also suffering from a head injury? Through the thick snowflakes the two figures finally resolved into Paz, lying down, and Jul, bent over his prone form, her hat pulled down over her eyes and... kissing Paz?

As Din lowered himself to the ground, he thought, a tad hysterical, that maybe he himself was laying somewhere, dying and seeing things. But no, as he came closer, he saw the passed-out officer laying next to Paz in the snow, and Jul putting Paz to rights carefully before lifting her hat and turning to Din.

“Thank the stars! Din, he lost a lot of blood, he’s okay right now but I can only do so much with the Force.”

“And… the kissing?”

Jul painstakingly got up and wobbled her way to Din’s side.

“I can’t feel my hands, let alone channel the Force through them right now.”

By the slurring in her voice, Din knew her lips weren’t far behind either. 

“Dank farrik. Let’s get you both inside before you die of hypothermia. I can carry the stormtrooper, but can you float Paz, like you did the Armorer?”

“I’m tapped out, Dieuw tree bark included. What about remote controlling his jetpack?”

“It’s only paired to his armor, and mine isn’t powerful enough to lift two adults.”

Jul swore, something colorful and Alderaanian that she finished off with a loud ‘stang!’. 

“We could leave the trooper behind,” suggested Din. 

Jul shook her head, “I… It felt like she recognized us, before. Recognized Peapod.” 

“Kriff.” 

Had Moff Gideon’s project been picked up by another Empire remnant? A spike of anxiety skewered Din’s guts, and a worried trill answered it. Both Jul and Din turned to Peapod, who was fighting his way out of Din’s cape, one ear at a time. The kid looked at them, huffed a small, put-upon sigh, struggled some more until he freed one arm from the bundle, and raised it towards Paz. 

Paz groaned as his body rose in the air, and Jul ran to his side. 

“It’s ok, Paz, we’re going to get you to the ship. A fluid IV, some bacta, and you’ll be good as new.”

Turning back to Din she added, “Let’s hurry. I don’t think Peapod has a ton of energy to spare either.”

Ladened down with the unconscious officer, the trip took three times as long as Din’s earlier jetpack hop, and felt to be ten times the distance. When they finally, _finally_ got inside the Razor Crest, tracking snow everywhere, Din stuck the officer in carbonite. Jul was trying to coax Peapod into letting go of Paz, but he refused until he had laid Paz down on the cabin’s bed in the living quarters. Only then did he relax his focus, turned to Jul with a triumphant coo, and immediately fell asleep. 

Even though he had seen it happen before, the way the tiny body went slack in his hands had Din’s heart drop. No doubt sensing his panic, Jul came closer. She laid a hand on the kid’s chest, watching it rise and fall for a few breaths. 

“He’s ok. Just tired.”

Picking Peapod up from Din’s embrace, Jul gently changed the kid into dry, warm clothes and laid him in his pram, her hands clumsy with cold still but loving. Din handed her an extra blanket and she tucked the child in. That done, she went to check on Paz, gathering the needed items and talking Din’s steadier hands through the process of getting the IV drip set up and applying the bacta to the blaster burn. She got slower the longer they went, clearly flagging, and by the end Din had to get her to repeat the last instructions. 

“Jul, when do I take it out?” 

“The IV? In an hour, you can… er… in an hour you can remove the IV.” 

“Jul, what about you? What do you need?” 

She looked at Din then, her warm brown eyes somehow meeting his gaze through the visor. She was silent a long moment, until Din repeated, “What do you need? For the cold, and the Force exhaustion?” 

Jul shook herself, opened and closed her mouth a couple of times, and finally got out, “Bacta to the extremities… I might have frostnip.”

Sighing heavily, she sat next to Paz on the bed and added, “I’m cold. A long nap next to a source of heat… that’d be good too. Won’t produce enough… enough of my own. Body heat that is.”

Kneeling before the bed so their heads would be level, Din plucked her hat off her head, then started on the zippers on her vest. 

“I’ve got it, Jul. I’ve got you, and Paz. You can rest now.” 

She raised her arms helpfully to help him pull her jacket off. Leaning forward, Jul bonked her forehead on Din’s forehelm and the Mandalorian paused, smiling. 

“Ow. Cold beskar.” 

Din chuckled softly, and made to lean back, but Jul followed, leaning forward further to keep the contact. After a long moment of silent, Din prompted her, “Jul?”

Shivering, she pulled back, and found Din’s eyes again. 

“I trust you, Din. Don’t forget the IV in… in an hour.” 

Letting herself fall to bed, she sighed. 

“Get Paz out of his beskar too, ok? Armor really isn’t that nice to cuddle with.” 


	51. Paz Vizsla

I’m roused from my dozing by a flash of panic, a panic that isn’t mine and mellows immediately. Din must have felt it too for his sleep-rough voice asks, “Jul?”

Jul is snuggly trapped between my chest and Din’s, the three of us lying on our sides, the only way we could all three fit in the tight bunk. That means I feel her tension as it releases, her body going limp between ours. Where bare skin touches, I feel relief, gratitude. She hums, and cuddles closer into me. I run a hand from her left shoulder to her hip under the blanket, confirming her skin has lost all of its chill.

I marvel at how small she is, curled up between Din and I like that. Awake, she is so full of life it’s easy to forget she weighs half of me, and most of it bones and fat. She is soft all over, a contrast to Din’s dense musculature. It is lovely, and every time my hands run down her arm, or her side, I can feel her contentment in the back of my head, like a loth-cat’s purr.

I feel her move the slightest bit in the total darkness, and there is a small gasp from Din. Reaching over Jul, I trace my fingers down his side to investigate: Jul grabbed him by the waist and brought him closer. Now all of our legs tangle, and there is a strangled moan from Din, echoed with pleased amusement from Jul, when their crotches come into contact.

Over the years, Din and I have become adept at finding each other in the absolute darkness of a Covert room or of his cabin. Yet, this feels new and different, not only for Jul’s presence, but for the way she projects feelings from her body to ours. When we move, it is slow, purposeful, and inexorable. Those long weeks I’ve worried about Din falling in love with Jul seem ridiculous now that she languidly rubs herself against me. How long since I fell for her also? How long since she decided she’d have us both?

I don’t know how much of my thoughts or emotions Jul can feel, but she twists against me, and suddenly I’ve got her mouth on me. Slightly chapped lips trail kisses along my shoulder to my jaw, and then we are kissing, her tongue teasing at the seams of my lips, a whine escaping me as the lazy arousal I’ve been nurturing for hours as she slept spikes. There is a chuckle from Din, and a second pair of lips nipping at my neck, my earlobe. I keen. _Manda, please don’t make it stop_ , I think as small, agile hands wander over my ribs, my belly, scratching, petting, and grazing, but never going lower than the band of my underwear.

Din is not as coy, and the hand that eventually sneaks between Jul’s body and mine is his, knuckles pressing torturously against my hard-on through layers of fabric as he explores Jul’s pussy. She enjoys whatever he’s doing, that I can tell by the way she braces herself on my chest to arch into his, by how she loses track of our kissing, by the fizzy pleasure that gives me goosebumps as it spills over from her. Feeling her arousal, foreign in its expression but familiar in its nature, ramps up my own want.

This underwear needs to come off. Some wiggling and giggling later, my goal is accomplished with enthusiastic help. Din is propped up on one elbow still , and when I reach over Jul between us, raising to mirror him, I bring his face to mine for a long, sensuous kiss. Releasing his nape, I then run my free hand down Jul’s back, pinching one of Din’s nipples between two knuckles in passing as payback for his earlier, similar tease.

His huff of laughter is cut short by a full moan when, after a squeeze of Jul’s rump she pushes into, I finally wrap my hand around his cock. His hand is still busy tracing Jul’s labia and circling her clit, and so there is nothing he can do but pump his hips into my fist as I start an unhurried pace. Anything faster would chaffe anyway, the friction too dry. I regret the absence of lube myself when, a minute later, Jul finally dares bring the hand she doesn’t have clutching my neck down to my sex, making good use of those clever fingers to explore in a most delicious fashion.

In a stroke of genius, I fall back down to my side, snaking my freed arm between Jul’s body and mine, tangling my fingers with Din’s briefly. She pants as we work together a moment, and once her wetness coats my hand I bring it to Din’s cock. My arm is now trapped between Jul’s body and the mattress, a small price to pay as Din moans, hips rolling faster now that he can chase his pleasure between my two hands.

Lost in his rapture, he has stopped his ministrations on Jul, and she tssk playfully as she moves against me, using her hands to guide me where she wants, which seems to be with my cock nestled between her folds. She starts rocking, and it is my turn to falter and groan. Kriff, but she is wet and good and I can feel her ache as it is satisfied by the head of my cock rubbing against the head of her clit. The dual sensations, especially synced like that, are maddening. I wonder how much of that Din can feel, if it’s only her pleasure that echoes through the Force, or if he can feel mine too. The idea sends such trepidation through me that I come undone, not sure who is where and even which limbs are mine as I bring Din close, Jul squeezed tight in the process.

When I finally come around enough to take stock, I’m holding Din with both hands on his hips, which are pumping slow and deep. That, his hitching moans, and the sense of fullness I can feel from Jul tell me all I need to know. She is breathing heavily, head tucked against my chest, my come no doubt mixing with her wetness as she touches herself in time to Din’s fucking.

If I were two decades younger…

But no, if I were two decades younger, I would have no idea what is going on, lying in the dark and wondering what the kriff my bedmates are doing. I would not know to move my hands to Din’s rump to feel the tension there as he comes. I would not know to seek Jul’s mouth and kiss her as she twitches all over a minute later, one of Din’s hand over hers as she touches herself to completion, and the other massaging her breast as he nibbles at her neck. I would not know to gentle Din with patient caresses along the whole glorious length of him as he comes down. I would not know, in the intimate darkness, to ask Jul what she liked, and what she didn’t, and what we could do better next time to please her.

I would not know, as we settle back in bed after cleaning up and checking on the kid - still deep asleep recovering from his stunt - to tell those two persons I love them. And so in the dark intimacy of our cabin I whisper:

_"I have slept with you  
all night long while  
the dark earth spins  
with the living and the dead,  
and on waking suddenly  
in the midst of the shadow  
my arm encircled your waist.  
Neither night nor sleep  
could separate us."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poetry Paz recites is once more courtesy of Pablo Neruda. What can I say, the guy knew what he was writing about.


	52. Cara Dune

Cara is hanging out in the Forge with Kara, going over the information Din transmitted in an encrypted holo, when the news of the Razor Crest’s landing reaches them. Kara thanks the messenger, and goes about putting away her tools as they wait for them to arrive and debrief. 

“I still can’t believe Gideon survived that Tie Fighter crash, we should have made sure he was dead.” grumbles Cara. 

“No regrets will change the past. Besides, he has perished at the hand of one of those sorcerers he sought to hunt. There is a grace there.” 

There is something pleased in Kara’s voice that Cara echoes with a smile. 

“Yeah, that Togruta with two lightsabers could be a lead for finding the kid a master, if that imp officer is to be believed.” 

“With Jul to sense him, I have no doubt his truth is what we know.” 

Cara smiles, pride and amusement mingling. The recording of the interrogation had shown an imp more than willing to talk after Jul had pointed out a couple of his lies. She almost felt bad for the Imperial remnant really, tasked with the surveillance of a frozen Jedi site, learning their Moff had gotten assassinated, and getting decimated themselves all in one week.

Peels of laughter alert Cara to the trio’s entrance. Paz’s rumble is cut off by a shove from Din, and Jul keeps laughing, the sound echoing brightly in the wide space. Din, Jul, and Paz quiet when the Forge’s decorum catches up to them, and they climb up the stairs in silence. As she watches them ascend, Kara pulls out a small box, places it on the table she receives audiences at, and kneels. She is the Armorer again, welcoming hunters home, and Cara steps out of the way to go stand by the wall.

As the two Mandalorians and Jul reach the last step, they are as somber as the ritual requires. There’s still something about the three of them though, a new awareness of each other. Din and Paz have always moved as one, but now Jul is part of the dance, bracketed on each side by an armored warrior and looking like she belongs. They’ve finally kriffed each other, Cara realizes. The Armorer must reach the same conclusion for, before any of them can speak, she says, “Welcome back. Have you pronounced the vows, then?”

“Which vows?” asks Jul, first to kneel in front of the table and placing her lightsaber on it. 

The Armorer leans forward, picking the cylinder almost gingerly. 

“The wedding vows,” she clarifies.

Jul turns to Din, who’s looking at Paz, who looks back at Din, who finally admits, “No.”

The sigh is only audible to Cara before the Armorer speaks. 

“Paz, Din, I have not advised marriage to you in all the years you shared because something was missing to bring balance to your union. Your combined stubbornness needs tempering. That something is sitting right here, and she deserves to see your faces as you see hers.”

Paz looks ready to say something, but holds off when the Armorer rises and lights up the saber. Cara has to blink the brightness away before she distinguishes the blade itself, slender like the rapiers Jul and Cara were taught to handle as Alderaanian nobility. The blade is a lovely hue of pale purple that winks out when the Armorer shuts the weapon off, sitting back down and handing Jul the cylinder.

“Mandalorian-Jedi alliances are not unheard of, after all.” 

“Does building a lightsaber make me a Jedi, then?” Jul wonders aloud, clipping the cylinder to her belt.

This time Cara can’t stay silent, “Why can’t you be your own thing? Besides, you’ve already failed thrice at not forming attachments.”

Jul glances left and right at Din and Paz and she’s a bit squeaky when she says:

“Thrice?”

“Yeah, what about him?”

Cara points behind them and the three turn in unison, just in time to see a determined green womp rat overcome the last of the many stairs leading to the Forge.

“Peapod, what happened to a nap?” gently admonishes Din as he goes to pick up the child, walking back to stand by Jul’s side. 

She rose when Cara pointed, and they form quite the tableau, two fully armored men, one of them holding a long-eared green child of fifty, and one woman in medic combat fatigues between them. It’s terribly cute, if Cara is being honest. 

“If he counts, then I’ve failed four times,” says Jul.

“Hmm?”

Jul walks to Cara and hugs her, “You were the first attachment, Tia. Thanks for coming to get me on Coruscant.”

When Cara steps back from the embrace, she can hear the smile in the Armorer’s voice when she comments, “You are free to pronounce the vows privately. However, the Covert could benefit from a celebration.”

“Nobody’s even proposed!” protests Jul.

Paz chuckles and, leaning around Jul, asks, “Din, will you stop being a moron and finally marry me?”

“Sure, Paz. Would you like to adopt my signet?”

“I’d be honored.”

Cara hears the Armorer chuckle as she leans down, picking up the box on the table and handing it to Jul, Paz and Din following the exchange. There is a beat of silence before Paz says, “Julandielle Dune, ours is a more recent relationship but I never thought anything could feel as right as you do in my, in our life.”

There, Paz seems to be a bit overcome by emotions as nothing else comes out. 

“Marry us?” finishes Din.

Jul’s smile is resplendent as she opens the box and presents the two men with the contents: two diamond-shaped beskar pieces. Paz makes a hilarious squeaky noise and Cara recognizes the pieces as the ones that go in the center of the Mandalorians’ chest plates. Cara walks closer to take a peek, and realizes the pieces are face down to show off some Mando’a engraving. 

Jul is still beaming as she explains, “I didn’t have a _ka’rta_ of my own to trade, and besides there’s two of you, so I hope that’s okay.” 

She turns to the Armorer briefly and the woman confirms, sounding pleased, “I forged them, didn’t I? You have my approval.” 

“Jul…” 

Din sounds like he’s dying a bit, and Jul’s getting kind of teary, Cara can tell, and she would bet good money Paz is not doing any better. Jul’s voice wobbles a bit as she asks, “Din, Paz, will you do me the honor of becoming my spouses?”

There’s a bit of frenetic nodding as Paz and Din each take their beskar heart. Then the two warriors move in tandem, each grabbing one of Jul’s hands, forcing her to unceremoniously drop the box to the ground. Din leading the way, his kid in the crook of his other arm, the farandole heads down the stairs.

“And Djarin, you better adopt that kid too!” yells the Armorer as they disappear around the corner, heading for the private quarters.


	53. Din Djarin

The door to Din and Paz’s quarters sliding closed was the sweetest sound Din had ever heard. His heart was racing, the excitement tinged with worry as he tried to remember when was the last time he had shaved and brushed his hair. After weeks of crawling towards that something he had wanted since their stop at Yaj and André’s place, it was happening too fast all of a sudden. 

The clang of armor brought Din back to the present moment. Paz had bumped into the corner of the chest of drawers on his way to the refresher. 

“Making yourself presentable?” joked Jul.

Paz answered, mock-serious, “I do not wish for you to take one look and divorce me on the spot.” 

Jul shook her head and turned to Din, who was busying himself with setting Peapod down on the bed. The child cooed and made grabby hands - for food or to be carried, Din wasn’t sure. 

“Everything ok?” Jul asked. 

Din huffed a laugh as he pulled out an instasoup pouch from his belt where he kept them as quick snacks for Peapod.

“Nervous. Nobody has seen my face since I was a child.” 

Pointing to the refresher where they could hear Paz banging around and the rush of water, Jul said, “You can have a turn in there if you want.”

Din thought about it and concluded that he would never be brave enough to step back out of the refresher if he went in in the first place. His insides felt like a tangle of knots, and no amount of washing his face would help. 

“It’s okay,” he answered, sounding unconvinced to his own ears. He broke the heating dot, shook the pouch, and gave it to Peapod. 

“Vow or not, you realize you don't actually have to show me your face, you know that, right?” pushed Jul.

The refresher door slid open and Jul added, “That stands for you as well, Paz.”

Din spoke before Paz could, “You’re not curious?”

Jul shrugged, “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t, but I knowyou, and I love you, and the helmet doesn’t impact that.” 

There was unbreakable conviction in Jul’s voice, and Din, the anxiety in his gut coming loose, turned to Paz, “What about you?”

“It has been a desire of mine to show you my face, and to gaze upon yours, for many years. I can wait longer.” 

Paz sounded sincere, but also just a tad grouchy about it, and Din’s heart filled with fondness. A loud slurp brought his attention back to the bed, where the kid had finished his soup on was following the conversation with interest. 

“We should adopt you first, though, shouldn’t we?” he asked the kid, who gurgled and handed him the empty pouch. 

“It seems the parameters of our quest have changed,” commented Paz.

Jul crosses her arms and says, looking petulant, “Even if we do find a Jedi, and Peapod has to go to school, I’d be there right with him, anyway.” 

“I’m not the kind to let a sorcerer abduct my child and spouse. I would be going along too.” 

To hear Paz say _spouse_ and _child_ so casually makes Din warm all over. Turning to Jul, he asked, “Do you know the adoption vow?” 

Jul shook her head no and Din turned gestured for Paz to go ahead. The three of them crouched in front of the bed to be level with the child, who looked between them with wide-eyed interest. 

“ _Ni kyr'tayl gai sa'ad_ , Peapod,” Paz said.

“I know your name as my child, Peapod,” declared Din, translating for Jul. 

“I know your name as my child, Peapod,” repeated Jul. 

There was a solemn pause, during which they waited for the child to react. After looking at each of them in turn, he cooed, making grabby hands for a second pouch of soup. Din could not help but chuckle. 

“Buddy, you’ve already had one.” 

Laughing, Jul added, “He knows something serious is happening, but the hunger won over.” 

They all three sat more comfortably on the floor, facing the bed where Peapod was getting frowny as his demand wasn’t immediately met with success. Jul grabbed a pouch off of Din’s belt and started preparing it. Din was going to protest when she said, “Give him a second now and he’ll be asleep two seconds after it’s done.”

Handing Peapod the snack, she added a wink for good measure, like the mere suggestion of a napping Peapod had not been enough to conjure memories of fumbles in the darkness of the Razor Crest’s cabin. 

Paz still elbowed Din as he ribbed, “Might our future spouse be getting some ideas for how Mandalorian marriages proceed?” 

Turning so she could lean back on the bed, the Mandalorians facing her, Jul answered, utterly serous, “If you think I’m not going to kiss your faces as soon as I get to see them, you’re gravely mistaken.” 

“Din has not decided yet,” Paz pointed out.

The smirk on Jul’s face sent heat racing down Din’s body. 

“Oh, he has,” she declared. 

She took one of Paz’s bare hands, and offered her free one to Din. Understanding dawning, he removed his own gloves and took it. Immediately, he felt her joy, her impatience, and her love flow through, feelings that were both alien and familiar. More faintly, he felt apprehension that echoed his own but belonged to Paz. Despite his apparent confidence, he also was worried about Din and Jul’s reactions. 

Remembering the lake, Din focused on the words of the marriage vow, repeating them a couple of times before he heard Paz breathe out a little “oh” of surprise. He paused then, and felt a tug of sorts, like a mental pull from Jul before they spoke at once, “We are one whether together or apart, we will share everything, we will raise our children as warriors.”

The happiness rose from Paz first, swelled through Jul, and crashed through Din with a strength that left him giddy. Jul let go of their hands, but the emotional wave barely ebbed, and it’s buoyed by the certainty that nothing could sink such love that Din removed his helmet. 

In the brief darkness of lifting the armor, he heard Paz’s seal coming undone and, raising his gaze from his helmet he had just laid on the floor, Din looked at Paz’s face for the first time. 

The man’s high cheekbones caught Din’s eye first, and the strong, straight nose second as Paz tilted his head putting his helmet down. Those two features that Din had kissed and felt in the dark many times before were for the first time coming together, gracing an oval, smooth face. Paz unpinned his hair and the ink black tresses of his long, straight hair, uncurled from his head to hang down his back. 

Paz had a beautiful, unmarred face, and Din felt embarrassed about his patchy scruff and nose that bore the mark of having been broken, but it faded quickly as Paz’s naked gaze met his for the first time, and Paz smiled. Din felt an answering smile on his face as Paz’s eyes roamed Din’s face. A couple of tears welled and rolled down Paz’s cheeks, and Din joked feebly, “Am I that ugly?”

Water clinging to his lashes, Paz punched Din’s shoulder, then pulled him into a hug so enthusiastic Din ended up draped over Paz’s lap. Laughing, feeling a bit unsteady himself, Din squeezed back before getting his knees back under him, shuffling until he could side hug Paz while turning to Jul. 

“So?” he asked.

Paz seemed to be only remembering now they had an audience and he straightened up. Din got the impression that, had they been standing, he might have saluted like a soldier at inspection. Jul giggled, an uncharacteristic noise from her unless it was late into the night and Cara and her were chatting in their cabin. She had pulled Peapod in her lap, and the kid was looking curiously but with no particular traces of surprise. 

“Jul?” prompted Paz as her silence endured. 

Shaking her head, she finally said, “I really don’t know why you were worried.”

Leaning forward, she ran a hand down the side of Paz’s face. He closed his eyes as she angled her head for a kiss, deep and lasting, a kiss that had Din start to sweat just from witnessing it. When it ended, Paz’s eyes opened with a flutter, and he licked his lips, looking dazed. 

Heart hammering, Din rose to his knees so he could reach Paz’s mouth himself. Paz’s smell, the way he kissed, his taste even, it was all familiar, of course. Being able to lean back and see the flush spread from his face to his throat, see the black pupils eat more and more of his hazel irises with every kiss bestowed, _that_ was a novel experience, one that sent fire pooling in Din’s gut. 

A tiny, indignant trill tore Din’s attention away, and both Paz and him shuffled apart guiltily. Jul removed her hands from where she had been covering the kid’s eyes. 

“I think it’s time for a nap, cutie, before your dads get carried away.”

They all got up, Din preparing the pram with a blanket and Paz cleaning up from snack time while Jul got the child ready for sleep in the refresher. The kid’s eyes were already half-closed, and he seemed to find it totally normal when Din dropped a kiss on his forehead after Jul placed him in the pram. The non-reaction was almost disappointing, really, thought Din, but he would take it over panic or fear. Jul finished tucking Peapod in, and Din closed the pram, and gently pushed it into the refresher. The green terror was more than able to open and get out of his pram, but a closed door would give them a bit more of a warning. 

With nothing and no one left to interrupt them, Jul turned back to Paz and Din, smiled wickedly, and asked, “Now, where were we?”

Paz was already sitting on the bed, and so Din went to sit beside him, the two of them watching as Jul shouldered her jacket off, followed it with her pants, and was down to her panties by the time she approached the bed. Placing one knee next to Din’s, Jul leaned down. She was taller than Din like this, so she ran a hand through his hair, pulling on it lightly to tilt his head up so she could kiss him. Din moaned, the sensation on his scalp enhancing that of Jul’s full lips, soft and supple. He moaned again when she deepened the kiss, biting at Din’s bottom lip before licking inside his mouth. Jul had both hands on him now, one on either side of his face, and Din heard Paz swear softly. How must it look, he thought, a barefaced Mandalorian otherwise wearing full armor, being directed where she wanted him by a mostly naked woman?

 _Kriffing good,_ was the answer, Din learned a minute later when Jul moved on to Paz while Din worked on his armor. They worked jointly on getting Paz geared down, and it wasn’t long until they were piling on the too small bed, all three of them fully naked now, admiring each other and the contrasts between their bodies in the daylight. Jul traced Paz’s scars as he told their stories, Din delighted in discovering where Jul was ticklish, and Paz counted Din’s beauty marks as an excuse to run his hands all over Din. They chatted and laughed like it was the hundredth time they were looking in each other’s eyes doing so. 

Exhaustion caught up to Jul first, who was still dealing with the aftermath of using the Force and getting hypothermia on Ilum. Paz was in the middle of embarrassing Din with the story of how Din had broken his nose when Din noticed Jul’s eyes were closed and her breathing even. She was lying on top of Paz, head tucked on his shoulder. Elbowing Paz into silence, Din informed Paz in a whisper. With a smile, Paz pulled the blanket up to cover them both, lifting a corner so Din could snuggle close too. 

Eyes and heart full, feeling warm and loved, Din let himself drift off. 


	54. Paz Vizsla

The revelry is already in full swing by the time we make our way to the _karyai_. Din and I are proudly wearing our new _ka’rta beskar_ in the center of our cuirasses, with all three names of the _riduurok_ (marriage) engraved in Mando’s on the reverse of the diamond-shaped piece. Jul is wearing both of our old pieces on a chain around her neck, Parjai having made a quick hole in them for her before we figure out something better with the Armorer. It kind of matches the mythosaur pendant around Peapod’s neck, which he bangs on the side of my helmet with delight from where he sits on my shoulder. 

The Armorer herself is busy directing the party, getting extra food brought out to buffet tables already heaped with finger foods, and testing the acoustics of the room to figure out where to place the musicians. Cara is tagging along, helping the _alor_ out, and I wonder what that is all about - it is rare to see one without the other these days. As soon as we are noticed, a cheer goes around the room, and it’s under thundering applause and yelling that we make our way to the Armorer. She says a few sappy things about unity, raising the next generation of Mandalorians, and becoming stronger for the broadening of our clan, however it happens. If any traditionalists disapprove, they stay silent, or get drowned out by the second round of cheering. 

As soon as the Armorer is done, Cara barely has time to congratulate us before we get mobbed by well-wishers. It is the first marriage in a while for the Covert, and the first celebration since we relocated, and my fellow Mandalorians are intense. After the third time Jul gets whacked on the back in congratulation by an armored idiot who doesn’t realize _she_ is unarmored, Din wraps a protective arm around her waist. I’m overwhelmed by the number of people who gift Jul a piece of beskar. It is traditionally a gift more suited to a child’s coming of age, and some of those offerings might contain a bit of a snide insinuation about her status as a civilian and an _aruetii_ (foreigner), but most people are sincere and she is touched. Besides, beskar is beskar, and I would not mind seeing some of it adorn and protect my wife. 

_My wife._

My cheeks are hurting with the amount of smiling I’m doing by the time the crowd disperses a bit. Music gets going and Din goes to get us a plate while I help Jul gather our gifts. Din and I received a more classic assortment of small incendiaries, home linens, bullets, and dishes, but a few of our closer friends have snuck a couple thoughtful things in there, like _uj’ayali_ , Din’s favorite cake, or a can of my armor’s blue paint. Din comes back and the four of us start a slow tour of the room, chatting with various groups while nibbling. Jul must have been teaching the cooks, because I recognize some of the small bites as recipes she developed specifically so Din and I could eat with Cara, Peapod and her. The kid, unencumbered by the social obligation of maintaining conversation, is stuffing his face, and Din periodically shakes his robe and wipes my shoulder to get rid of the crumbs. 

We are taking a little break, leaning helmets and foreheads together in a quiet corner, when a commotion starts at the opposite end of the _karyai_. The music stops abruptly and the Armorer’s voice rises over the crowd, silence falling as she demands it. 

“Sentry, talk.” 

The sentry, Sheem, immediately declares, “We have a small Imperial shuttle approaching. They aimed directly for the concealed ship entrance, and they hailed us. The pilot says her name is Sabine Wren, and that she’s Mandalorian.” 

“Sabine Wren? She’s my niece.” 

That’s Parjai, working his way through the crowd to approach the Armorer. 

“Very well. You can identify her. Sheem, Ruusan, Din, Paz, Jul, you’re also with me. Karta, Cara, Esok, and Ung, take the kids to the safe room. Peapod excluded.” 

The room snaps into action, as I protest, “Shouldn’t Jul and Peapod go to the safe room?”

“They know the Temple’s layout,” answers the _alor._

“You think this Sabine Wren might have a Jedi with them,” I realize out loud.

“Or captured and got information from one. We might need Jul’s powers.”

A shiver runs down my spine and I take Peapod down from my shoulder. 

“What about our _ad_ (child)?” I ask. 

“If there is a Jedi, they might be the Master he needs.” 

I look to Jul, who has been silent all along. She has her hand on her saber already, face somber. She must sense my gaze on her, because she turns to me, and says aloud, “I’ll go with him whatever happens.” 

There is no time to discuss or plan further, as we arrive in the hangar just as a Lambda-class shuttle lands, its wings folding up before it touches the landing platform that we stand at the mouth of. 

Mandalorians are curious by nature, and more warriors than the ones the Armorer asked for press themselves behind us in the tunnel. Weapons have not been drawn but Sheem and Ruusan’s Combat Shields are out, just in case. 

The shuttle’s ramp opens, and two figures step out. One of them is wearing Mandalorian armor, eye-searingly colorful in a way nobody at the Covert would willingly adopt. The other one wears a robe that hides their figure, but corresponds to the descriptions and holos of Jedi we’ve studied when we were at Yaj’s place. They step in sync, allies at the very least. They stop a careful few meters away from our delegation, and the Mandalorian says, “I’m Sabine Wren.” 

And then she removes her helmet. 

There’s an immediate gasp traveling through our group, and calls of “ _Dar’manda!_ ” and “Thief!” ring out. The Armorer raises a staying hand, but it’s too late, and some overeager blaster bolts zip past me, aimed at the woman. 

There’s the energy buzz of a lightsaber activating, and the robed figure parries them with a nonchalant flick of her wrist. Her blade is a blinding, pure white, and as a second wave of exclamations, this time in the flavor of “Jetii!” goes through the Covert delegation, I hear more weapons being drawn, and the Jedi draws a second white blade while the barefaced Mandalorian draws her blaster. 

Wait… two white blades… 

“Are you the Togruta who killed Moff Gideon?” I ask before anybody can shoot some more. 

The Armorer’s shout of “ _Gev_!” gets our side to lower their weapons, and the Jedi retracts her blade before shrugging off her hood. She’s an adult Togruta, blue and white lekku down to her waist, terracotta ochre skin bearing intricate white designs on her face. 

“I did kill Moff Gideon, but I am no Jedi.” 

“Your blades tell a different story,” comments the Armorer. 

“Do they? I see a lightsaber at her waist, too.” 

The Togruta is smiling, pointing at Jul. There are murmurs on our end, and Jul looks to the Armorer. Pitching her voice so it reaches all of our delegation, the Armorer declares, “Like Tarre Vizsla in the legends of old, I forged this saber. It’s as much a Mandalorian weapon as a Jedi one.” 

She nods to Jul and, in the expectant quiet, Jul unsheathes her saber, shaking her hand so the blade collapses briefly before reappearing as the large energy shield. Ohs and ahs from the crowd almost cover the Togruta’s comment of “Interesting feature.” 

“I kinda wish mine did that,” adds Sabine, “My vambrace’s combat shield has been busted for years.” 

And the colorful Mandalorian, shaking her vivid purple hair away from her face, her helmet under one arm, casually turns on a black-bladed saber. I blink, and shake my head, but it’s still there when I reopen my eyes.

_Tarre Vizsla’s darksaber._

There is more astonished shouting from behind me and I feel like I’ve got front seats to an absurdist play some bored Covert members are putting on in the _karyai_. What are those two going to pull out next, a sacred _bes’bev_ (Mandalorian combat flute) to play during the intermission?

“ _Mand’alor_.” 

It’s the Armorer, breathing out the title once, before she repeats it louder, and goes down on one knee. Din and I immediately follow, and soon all the Mandalorians are kneeling.

“Please, please, no, get up.” 

The colorful Mandalorian looks terribly embarrassed, but then she spots Parjai - he and Jul are the only ones not kneeling. 

“Parjai?”

“Sabine, I can’t believe it. You’re a meter taller and the Mand’alor?!” 

The colorful Mandalorian opens her arms wide and goes to hug him while the Armorer tentatively stands back up. 

“Parjai! I haven’t seen you since in ages! How are you? Is Zahir here too?” 

The flash of pain on Parjai’s face brings to mind the funerary altar in his house, with the holo of a smiling Mandalorian Zabrak, his helmet held under his arm. The woman catches on and hugs Parjai tighter, “Oh, I’m sorry.”

The smith says, smiling sadly, “ _Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la_ (Not gone, merely marching away).” 

Sabine Wren repeats the hommage and I can feel the Covert behind me relax as they stand back up, following the Armorer. Now that she’s closer, I can distinguish patterns within the swirls of red, yellow, and purple adorning her armor. She has a faded Rebel-looking Starbird in orange on her cuirass, and a checkered pauldron. 

The Togruta has come closer as well, and she explains, “Sabine defeated Gideon in combat, earning the saber for herself, when we captured the Moff for questioning. He did not know the information we sought, but what he revealed made us glad we had stopped him anyway. He tried to escape, and I had to make a choice. I chose to end his life rather than risk his twisted knowledge spreading.” 

I turn to Din, who is holding Peapod tight. Jul has a comforting hand on Din’s shoulder, and she asks, sounding shy, “If you are not a Jedi, what are you?” 

The Togruta’s smile is gentle and serene. 

“I’m Ashoka Tano, no less, no more. What about you?” 

“Julandielle Dune. I’m a cook, occasionally a medic. Nothing more.”

The Togruta shakes her head, amused. 

“That’s not what your son says. Despite not having his innate closeness to the Force, you are using your talents beautifully. He loves you very much.”

That last remark is directed at Din and I as well, and I can’t help smiling under my helmet, giddy when Peapod makes grabby hands from his seat at the crook of Din’s arms and squeezes my finger. 

“You can talk to… How much has he told you?” asks Jul.

“Enough. Congratulations on your nuptials, by the way.” 

Turning to Sabine, she adds, “My concerns have been assuaged. We can go whenever you wish.” 

Jul turns to Din and me, looking overwhelmed. It’s the Armorer who rescues her though, asking both our visitors, “Would you accept our hospitality for the night? There are many questions I would ask of our Mand’alor.” 

“It’s accidental, really, I’m no Mand’alor,” protests Sabine Wren. 

The Armorer doubles down, “Still, we would welcome news of other Mandalorians.” Turning to Ashoka Tano, she adds, “And Jedi or not, you possess knowledge of the Force we are lacking.” 

The Togruta sighs and turns to the colorful Mandalorian, who shrugs, “There’s no harm in spending the night.” 

Jul pipes up, “You actually have great timing, we are celebrating tonight and the food is excellent. I think you’d enjoy the local hand pies, we got some in from the nearby village for the party.” 

Sabine gasps, “Ashoka was just telling me about those before we landed!”

The Togruta is shaking her head at Peapod, who has his most innocent face on. I look to Jul, who is biting her bottom lip to hold her smile in as she says, “Perfect, let’s just head for the food, and you can tell us everything about using the Force, Mandalorian politics, and how you found us in the first place.” 

“Oh, you see, it’s the damnedest thing really…” 

The Armorer leads the way back to the karyai, and the group shrinks as Covert Members leave to spread out the news of our guests’ arrival, and go fetch the kids from the safe room. 

Jul nods and between her and the Armorer’s pointed questions, Sabine Wren and Ashoka Tano tell us about how some friend of theirs alerted them that Mandalorians were visiting Jedi temples, and so they had some other friends keep an eye on relevant hyperlanes. 

By the time we arrive at the karyai, Naharb and Parjai have claimed a table for us, with food and drinks, and Sabine finishes her story while the party starts again. 

“When we got close enough to Spintir, Ashoka felt the little guy’s presence, and there we are.”

She punctuates the end of her tale with a gesture to the _karyai_ at large, placing her helmet on the table so she has two hands free, one for a hand pie, and one for a glass of fruit juice. 

Every single Covert member floods the room hoping to get a look at the guests as the night progresses, and I have to admit the rest of the wedding party is much more enjoyable with a reluctant Mand’alor and a non-Jedi to soak up some of the attention. 


	55. Cara Dune

“You’re sure I can’t convince you to come along?” Jul is running around frantically, packing as fast as she can, and Cara’s heart twangs, but she stays firm.

“No, I can do more good here.”

“And Kara is here too,” adds Jul knowingly. 

“The Armorer?” asks Paz, folding some clean laundry by the commode. 

His tone is neutral but his eyebrows are disapproving, and Cara suspects he doesn’t realize he is making a face.

“You forget she’s as much a person as you all are, and needs a friend.” 

“A friend, or a lover?” teases Jul, and Paz’s face gets even more frowny.

It’s still weird to be able to see it in the first place, but she’s glad both Din and Paz consider her family enough to take off their helmets when she’s around. 

Cara answers, “That’s up to her, really. I get the feeling she might not go for the physical stuff, but I don’t really care to label our relationship either way.” 

Jul hums approvingly, distracted by trying to choose which of two almost identical toys should go in Peapod’s pack. Cara resumes boxing ammunition for their trip, wondering if two bandoliers’ worth of Amban rifle rounds is enough, or if she should do one more. Din would know.

“Where’s Din anyway?” she asks out loud.

Jul places one stuffed bantha in Peapod’s bag and throws the second one into the toy chest at the foot of the bed. She takes in a big breath, screws her eyes shut, and exhales slowly. Cara glances to Paz, wondering what she’s doing, but he’s staring at Jul with a besotted look that’s blind to anything but her. 

“He just picked Peapod up from class. They’ll be here in a minute.” 

The daycare and the school are on the opposite side of the temple, and Cara exclaims, “What the… You can sense him from that far away?”

Jul shrugs, “Once he had Peapod with him, it was pretty easy.”

A handful of days training with Ashoka are already paying off, that much is clear, and Cara understands better her family’s eagerness to volunteer for whatever mission Sabine and Ashoka are on if it means Peapod and Jul can keep learning. 

Cara is reaching for the next box of mixed ordinance to sort when there’s a knock at the door, in the pattern Cara was taught is reserved for family allowed to see your face. Paz, who already had his helmet in hand, relaxes and puts it back down as the door slides open and Din waltzes in, cape swishing, Peapod attached to his arm like a baby Kowakian monkey-lizard. He’s got his ears back and he trills as a counterpoint to Din when the man immediately starts talking, “Ashoka’s got fifteen days of food on their shuttle and we have three weeks or so.”

Without pause, Din removes his helmet and puts it down next to Paz’s on the commode, and continues, “Next we need to make sure that updated map from Sabine’s New Republic friend has finished downloading to the Razor Crest.” 

He finally spots Cara, and there’s a flash of panicked surprise on his face that he covers by running a hand through his unruly curls, making it worse. 

“Oh, hi Cara, I didn’t realize you’d be here.” 

“I can leave.” 

“No, no, thanks for helping us pack. Jul, do you have Peapod’s mythosaur necklace? I couldn’t find it on the Crest.” 

“It’s in his bag. Din…” 

Jul tries to catch the man as he paces, picking up and putting down random items. Paz closes the commode and turns to observe his husband, leaning back on the piece of furniture. 

“Paz, are we good on clothes? Do we need anything from Requisition?” 

Paz smiles and answers calmly, “We even have an extra _kute_ , I’ll bring it to them so others can use it while we’re gone.”

“Good, great. Oh, Jul, we have to see the Armorer before we leave, she finished the beskar-weave body armor you two decided on.” 

The more words come out of Din’s mouth, the more panicked he sounds, and Jul looks concerned when she says, “I’m already wearing it, Din.” 

That stops the man, and he stares at Jul. The Armorer, with the help of the Covert’s tailors, made Jul one of those fitted one-piece bodysuits the Mandalorians wear under their armors. The Armorer weaved the beskar Jul was gifted in the fabric itself, so Jul retains a full range of motion to do all the acrobatics Ashoka has been demonstrating Force-users are able of. 

“Oh. You look good.” 

Din sits down on the bed, placing Peapod on his lap, blinking hard, and Cara snickers. The bodysuit is dark purple, a sheath that shows off Jul’s body and the belt at her waist from which her lightsaber hangs. She looks dangerous, in a drop-dead gorgeous way. Cara can’t wait for the husbands to see Jul with the beskar headpiece on too, which the Armorer forged on Naharb’s advice that Jul needed something to house a com link and to keep her hair back from her face. She looks like the duchess she still technically is with is on, and it’s awesome. 

“Oh, I almost forgot.” 

Jul goes to the commode, hip-checking Paz out of the way so she can dig up a box from the top drawer. She takes a _kar’ta beskar_ out of the box, freshly painted blue like Paz’s armor, and turns her left shoulder to Paz so he can affix it there like the smallest of pauldrons. She whispers something to him, and he answers with a smile and a quick kiss. 

Then, Jul pulls out the second diamond-shaped piece. Cara steps closer so she can see it: the plain beskar now has the Djarin mudhorn signet stamped in the center. Jul sits on the bed next to Din, presenting her right shoulder, and hands him the piece. The man’s hands are trembling as he attaches it. 

“Jul…” he starts, but doesn’t say anything else as tears start running down his cheeks. 

As Paz hurries to his husband, sitting at his feet so he can hug Din’s waist, Cara wonders if she should leave the room. That would require everybody to be helmeted, though, just in case the hallway is not empty, and anyway Jul is beckoning Cara over. Cara sits on the bed at Din’s free side and throws an arm over his shoulder.

“What’s up, Mando?” she asks, feeling awkward. 

Din’s getting himself under control, and says between deep, shaky breaths, “I just, I’m sorry, I’m tired.” 

Cara glances at Jul, but she gestures for Cara to continue. 

“You’re tired, huh? Between the kid and the spouses, you’re not getting a lot of sleep I bet.” 

“Cara!” 

Din is looking at her now, scandalized, but Paz’s chuckle encourages her. 

“It will quiet down once you will all have had your fill, don’t worry.” 

“I, Cara, that’s really not…” 

At least the embarrassment is taking over from whatever he was feeling before, and Jul picks the conversation up, “What’s really going on, Din? 

The man sighs, petting Paz’s head with one hand and Peapod with the other, the two of them in his lap. 

“I was hoping to be here for a bit,” he admits.

“While I, too, was hoping to enjoy Gideon’s demise for longer, I am glad Ashoka and Sabine found us. They are fantastic teachers.”

Paz’s ringing endorsement gets another sigh out of Din. 

“There’s that too. Jul, you look every bit the warrior you said you didn’t want to be, and our child is learning how to fight too.” 

Jul fiddled with the lightsaber at her waist, thinking for a bit before answering, “I’ve talked to Tano and Sabine about it actually, they made some interesting points. Our world is… violent. I’d rather my son be equipped for it. I still hope I won’t have to ever kill again, but I want to be ready to defend my family. If I need to be a warrior to be a protector, so be it. The path Tano walks, the one I’m deciding for myself, is neither Jedi nor Sith. It won’t be pure light or pure darkness. It will be somewhere in the middle.”

“When one chooses to walk the way of the Mandalore, they are both hunter and prey.” 

That’s Paz talking, but Cara thinks that sure sounds like something out of Kara’s mouth. Din sighs again, but he’s straightening up, less exhausted dad and more beskar warrior. 

“I just wish we got a break, that’s all,” Din grumbles as Paz unfolds himself from Din’s lap. Cara squeezes Din’s shoulder as she gets up too, saying, “Corvus is a week of travel away, you’ll get your rest, old man.” 

Jul leans into Din, a hand on his cheek.

“I don’t know about the Way,” she starts, “but I think life’s like gingerbread. You need a bit of salt” she kisses the tear tracks on Din’s face, “to enhance the sweet,” she kisses him deeply on the mouth.

Cara, who heard her cousin’s theory before, picks Peapod up from Din’s lap before heading for the door. 

“That’s my cue. Peapod and I will be in the kitchens. Wait till I’m out of here for the spice!”

“The spice?” asks Paz.

Checking everybody is helmeted, Cara opens the door. The last thing she hears before she closes it is her cousin, asking innocently, “Have I shown you the nifty closures on this suit?”

Cara bursts into laughter imagining the look on Paz and Din’s faces when they realize Jul’s not wearing anything under her bodysuit. Peapod makes a questioning noise, and Cara answers, “You’re right, buddy, let’s go bake you gingerbread cookies for the road.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And... curtain!  
> Thank you for reading, I hope you've enjoyed this story as much as I enjoyed writing it.  
> Please consider leaving a teeny tiny comment to let me know what you liked, or disliked, or what you want to read from me next!


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